


Or Be Nice

by charlottemadison



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, And he is not very nice, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), But it's offscreen, Classical Music, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has a cat, Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley plays drums in this one, Enemies to Lovers, Gay Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Marijuana, Neighbors, Nice Nice is a Four Letter Word, Noise Nuisance Violation Anthony J. Crowley, Pride and Prejudice vibes, Scene: The Wall Slam in Tadfield Manor (Good Omens), Weddings, and the misuse of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are neighbours. And...it does not go at all well, until it does.A human AU in which Aziraphale is a bookseller, Crowley is a drummer, and they are both petty disasters in the worst/best way.+++“So what’s your deal?” asked Crowley.“My-my-my deal?” Aziraphale stammered. “I’m a bookseller, is my deal.”“Oh,” they replied, sounding as uninterested as it was possible to sound.“It’s just, I couldn’t help overhearing, and --” Aziraphale swallowed hard. “You really are an accomplished musician. But I thought -- for after eleven PM -- perhaps we could reach some arrangement?”“Arrangement?”Aziraphale felt his his smile turning forced. “Such as, perhaps, playing the drums *before* eleven? Instead of after?”Crowley stared blankly at him. In fact he stared for so long that Aziraphale briefly wondered if he'd lapsed into ancient Greek again, which he was known to do in bad dreams or during panic attacks.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 463
Kudos: 464
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a new AU that's all about the dialogue! That is my entire thing.
> 
> I have suffered through many terrible roommate and neighbor situations, and if you have too, you have my sympathy. I love letting Aziraphale & Crowley be in love with each other, but I also really like letting them be proper enemies first, and nothing sets that up like the shared wall of a flat in an old building. 
> 
> So prepare for some petty bastardry and snarls and sneers and misunderstandings -- it'll be fun! [devious cackle]

> _And all I ever wanted was a good time, good time_  
>  _All I ever wanted was a way to break free  
>  _ _Woke up in the gutter with a mouthful of mud and now_  
>  _All I am is haunted by the way we ought to be..._

The singing wasn’t so bad. He wouldn’t have minded just the singing. 

The chorus continued on the other side of the door, a capella, as shuffling footsteps approached. The lyrics faded into a mellow hum as the sounds of turning locks and chains clacked down the threshold from top to bottom.

Aziraphale put on his sunniest smile as the door opened a scant few inches. “Hello!” he said brightly.

The man -- or rather, the person, since they seemed to be making some deliberately androgynous choices about presentation -- said nothing. They just looked him up and down in mild surprise. Or possibly irritation. It was hard to tell; they were wearing nearly opaque sunglasses.

“Er, yes. Hello,” Aziraphale said again, feeling more wrong-footed by the moment.

Instead of returning the greeting, the gangly redheaded character leaned in the doorway, unimpressed, and crossed his -- their, Aziraphale corrected himself until he knew for certain, _their_ arms. The silence between them was growing excruciating.

“.....Welllll?” they finally drawled in a discouraging tone.

“So, ahm, I’m the new neighbour,” Aziraphale explained hurriedly, “and I just thought I ought to...er...introduce myself, so we could -- ahmm --”

“What happened to Erik?”

Aziraphale blinked. “I-I don’t rightly know. We didn’t actually meet one another. ...But I do hope Erik is well, wherever they are; they left the place very clean --”

“He _what?!”_ The rude neighbour, or so Aziraphale was starting to conceive of them, sounded personally affronted that Erik was gone. They ducked out of their flat, closing the door behind them, careful not to let the contents of the room be seen.

“You didn’t notice the whole, emm, moving? Undertaking?” Aziraphale asked. “All the furniture and the noise? It took three days.” Aziraphale glanced from their shared landing down the long straight stairway to the exit. Their first floor flats were the only two in the old brick building.

“Hunh,” said the neighbour. “Weird.”

“I installed shelving on our shared wall yesterday. You didn’t hear that?”

“Nnnh.” They pushed the sunglasses up their sharp nose and sniffed. “So Erik’s gone?”

Aziraphale was at a loss. “Ah -- I -- it......that seems to be the case, yes, seeing as I live here now and they don't.”

The neighbour produced a phone, apparently from the ether, and began texting someone furiously. They wore a sharp scowl on their narrow face. A shock of long coppery hair kept falling in their eyes and being brushed over their shoulder. Their lipstick was scarlet. Their fingernails were painted a dark maroon. 

They acted utterly unaware that there was another human being standing three feet away hoping to converse with them.

On the whole this was not, Aziraphale thought, a promising beginning.

“So, ah, I’m -- you can call me Ezra,” he said, when he thought he saw an opening between texts. He got no response.

After forcing himself to count to fifteen, he tried again. “I'm Ezra Warden. And you are.......?”

“So what’s your deal?” the neighbour asked suddenly, several seconds later. The phone vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Best not to speculate as to where it had gone; those astoundingly tight black jeans looked unlikely to have functional pockets.

“My-my-my deal?” Aziraphale stammered. “I’m a bookseller, i-is my deal.”

“Oh,” they replied, sounding as uninterested as it was possible to sound.

For the next part, Aziraphale steeled himself, or did his level best to. “To -- ah, to which point -- I do have to get up for work in the mornings, I thought it might be -- might be prudent to let you know.”

“...Don’t most people?”

“Yes, but -- I have to get up rather _early.”_ He lifted his eyebrows hopefully, but the neighbour remained impassive behind those sunglasses. Good Lord, was he going to have to spell it all out?

“Crowley,” announced the lanky ginger abruptly.

“Sorry?”

“Crowley, I’m Crowley.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale sighed in open relief. “Oh, thank you; pleased to make your acquaintance, Crowley.”

They snorted as if this amused them. “And...?”

“Oh, it’s just, I couldn’t help overhearing, and --” He swallowed hard. “You really are an accomplished musician, I’m very, ah, very impressed. But I thought, for -- for after eleven PM -- perhaps, perhaps we could reach some arrangement?”

“Arrangement?”

Aziraphale could feel his smile turning forced. “Such as, perhaps, playing the drums _before_ eleven? Instead of after? There is -- that is the listed time according to the noise nuisance regulations, I believe.”

Crowley stared blankly at him. In fact he stared for so long that Aziraphale briefly wondered if he'd lapsed into ancient Greek again, which he was known to do in bad dreams or during panic attacks.

“So’re you popping off to an Agatha Christie larp or what?” Crowley asked.

“An Agatha Christie what?” Aziraphale echoed.

“Larp.”

“A lark?”

“Larp, _LARP,”_ Crowley said, as though repeating the word would make it mean anything.

Aziraphale shook his head rapidly. This whole encounter was rather dreamlike; the continuity was all off. “I'm very sorry, I don’t ff-follow. It's after midnight, so I'm not popping off anywhere.”

“What’s all this then?” Crowley jutted out their sharp chin in a way that seemed to indicate something. When Aziraphale continued to gape, Crowley indicated his clothing, up and down. “I mean all _this,_ this Inspector Poirot cosplay or whatever.” Their graceful fingers managed to make the gesture lascivious somehow.

Aziraphale looked down at himself. He was wearing what he wore every day: a smart cotton shirt, vintage waistcoat, classic cut trousers and a bow tie. He _liked_ to present this way. It announced who he was, it gave him a persona and a context; it helped strangers know what to expect from him, and what not to.

And he’d been working with his therapist and his friends on feeling unashamed of his chosen presentation for years now, but it had always been a struggle, given his past, and this encounter was feeling more and more like a nightmare, and in the face of this confounding _Crowley,_ Aziraphale’s carefully scaffolded self-assurance was crumbing completely. And probably his expression, too.

He stepped back, head bowed, and felt the all-too-familiar sensation of folding up, of preparing to vanish. He’d been talking himself into coming over to knock on the door for at least two hours. He was retreating inside of three minutes.

“Well, I -- m-m-much as I enjoy Agatha Christie, this is -- just -- I’ll -- I'm s-s-orry to trouble you at this hour. I only meant t-to...um...”

He took a deep breath and wished to heaven he could transform into someone else, someone who believed in his own right to do what he liked. His neighbour clearly didn't give a second thought to answering the door at midnight with their shirt off and sunglasses on.

Although, he mused wryly, if he looked anything like Crowley did with his shirt off and sunglasses on, he might not have thought anything of it either.

Crowley straightened up and took hold of the door handle. “Okay, I’m jus' gonna...” They jerked a thumb over their shoulder.

Aziraphale nodded, looking at the floor. “Right, of course, didn't mean to k-keep you. Er, I’ll just be across the way here, and --” Crowley was already turning away, closing the door “-- and if you could maybe -- a-a-about the drums --” The locks and chain clicked back into place with frustrating finality.

And so Aziraphale returned miserably to his own flat, looking around at the charming old wainscotting, the original wood floors, the grandmother clock that the owner had asked him to keep for her. How had this room brought him so much joy and relief only hours before? He'd been head over heels with hope that finding a cosy new place of his own would change everything.

Or at least something. Anything.

But now it was clear as day that a change of venue couldn't correct the most persistent of Aziraphale’s problems: continuing to be himself.

Ten seconds later, at top volume, the drumming resumed. So did the singing eventually, louder, wilder, and pitchier than before, although the lyrics were drowned out by the pounding and the crash.

+++

What the fuck had happened to Erik?

And why the fucking fuck was the new neighbour so preposterous?

Crowley returned to his throne and reclaimed his sticks, letting his foot bounce a few times on the kick pedal as he got comfortable. Erik hadn't said a damned thing, just up and vanished. And he wasn't texting back. Was the kid all right? Had he gone back home? Or had he moved in with those friends of his Crowley'd always had a bad feeling about?

More importantly, was Crowley's weed guy still in the picture, or would he have to start all over from scratch?

Nah, not _more_ importantly, he thought, probably the kid was more important than the weed, but still, it just fucking _figured._ He donned his heavy isolation headphones and started the track over from the beginning. Busy hands would keep him from spinning up too much with worry.

They'd had a nice symbiotic relationship, the two of them. Erik worked late at the bar up the street and wasn't even around for the noise after hours, plus he'd sort of looked up to Crowley in a way that was admittedly flattering. They did movie night from time to time across the hall. During which Crowley would usually try to talk the kid out of running with the crowd he was running with. And purchase some edibles or oil, of the reliable, consistent, and high-quality variety.

Irreplaceable, an Erik was. Indispensable.

And it was definitely disconcerting that he'd vanished without a trace -- _what was that about?_

Now there was a new guy. An obnoxious, old money, pretentious toff sort of new guy. A waking-up-early-in-the-morning and probably taking afternoon tea with his pinky up new guy. _Ugh._

Whatever. There was a gig coming up in a few days, and no way was Crowley letting Hastur cut another of his songs. The set needed to be airtight. He skipped to the next track and started singing along in full voice while his mind wandered.

See, the point was -- the point _was:_

Crowley already had enough polite two-faced arseholes in his life, all day every goddamn day, and he really wasn't cut out to handle another one. That sickly sweet passive aggression -- the fake self-righteous smile -- the iron-fisted insistence on enforcing conservative norms, hidden behind a polite bullshit veneer of ever-so-English “oh, so sorry, beg pardon, if you please” -- _Fuck. That._

Of course it was too late to play drums. Obviously. But this was Soho, and not the pretty corner of it; they lived over a bloody sex toy shop, the bars were all blaring outside, and the neighbour, whose name Crowley had already forgotten -- the anti-Erik -- he would have to deal with the reality of the street where he'd decided to slum it. Maybe he thought he could gentrify the place. Civilise everyone. Civilise Crowley.

Naaah. New guy didn't belong here.

New guy wouldn't last.

With a little rebellious stab of vindictiveness, Crowley added the crash cymbal to the second chorus instead of the ride, just to amp up the energy. And the volume. It felt _good._ Really good.

He wanted to play all night, but the everyday exhaustion from work overtook him after forty minutes. Too irritated to go to bed, he sprawled out on the rug on his belly and wondered how much he would ache in the morning if he just slept there.

He heard a soft scratching sound and squinted one eye open reluctantly. Two luminous golden eyes stared back at him, unblinking, from the shadows under the sofa.

“You making noise? Are you a noise nuisance?” Crowley crooned to Siobhan. She miaowed at him insistently, but silently, pawing the floor again in a quiet bid for attention. Siobhan didn't say much. Didn't take up much space. She was a good little cuddler though.

She was also good at chasing every last one of her toys under the couch, apparently.

Crowley rolled onto his side. He’d been wondering why he hadn’t seen any of her little belled balls or fabric mice underfoot lately. “So that's where all your things went. You expect me to fish them out or are you guarding your dragon hoard?”

She miaowed soundlessly again and padded out onto the rug. And of course she flopped on her side and started purring _just_ an inch out of reach.

“Rude!” Crowley protested, and in response she set about leisurely cleaning her face with a paw. They both knew who was boss around here (and who cleaned up the endless supply of black cat hair that got on everything). With a sigh, Crowley strained to reach under the couch and started batting her things out into the light. Siobhan ignored each and every one.

Until he found the rich purple envelope labeled CROWLEY. She pounced on that immediately.

“You reading my mail now?” Crowley asked, nudging her away. He lay on his back and ripped the envelope open roughly. It was full of little telltale claw punctures.

At the same time his phone buzzed, and he paused everything to whip it out. He'd received several texts while he was practising, all from Erik.

Today 00:26

**E:** u not get my note mate?

**E:** left a pretty card under the door days ago!!!!

**E:** alls fine dont freak out. just rent was a bit much so im @damiens now like i said i might be~

**E:** thought i told u i gave notice but maybe that was a dream?? anyway u were @work whenever we were movin stuff so i dint see u to say bye

**E:** drop by the pub soon tho still on my reg sched

**E:** cheers~

**E:** u awake?

**E:** u dead?

_“Rrrrrrrrrrgh,”_ Crowley growled, splaying his limbs out every which way. “Damien’s? That's bullshit. Bullshit, I'm telling you,” he complained to Siobhan. She yawned at him. He texted back.

Today 00:51

**C:** not dead, only drumming

**C:** (put that on my tombstone)

**E:** ah sweet

**C:** glad ur all right. ill stop by soon.

**C:** gonna miss u, there's a new guy now

**E:** yeah hows the new guy~

Crowley groaned under his breath and wished he had the energy to get up and play one more song. A loud one. A very loud one.

**C:** he. is. the. worst.


	2. Chapter 2

The reverberating growl and grind of the bin lorry in the alley woke Aziraphale at six thirty. Ten minutes before his alarm.

His first conscious thought was that he would be investing in high quality earplugs. _Today._

But the first feeling of the day preceded his first thought, and that was a dull, aching, underslept agony.

Aziraphale covered his face with the duvet and groaned. His second conscious thought of the day was that he needed to buy blackout curtains. The sun evidently dawned directly onto his face in summertime.

Bed was making him miserable, since he wasn't asleep in it, so he got up groggily to put the kettle on with shaky hands and listen to the morning news on Radio 4.

He fumbled his first cup of tea and spilled it across the floor.

He was so addled he put down two slices of bread to toast, then absently put down two slices again, somehow doubling them up in the slots and charring all four pieces.

The eggs he'd boiled the night before wouldn't peel properly, and he had to crouch over the bin to pick tiny pieces of shell off of ugly wrinkled ovoids that wound up looking nothing like food.

Thus far, his first morning waking up in the new flat regrettably resembled his first night sleeping in it. Aziraphale was not a superstitious man, but all these mishaps were starting to feel uncomfortably like ominous omens. (His extremely superstitious friend, Anathema Device, would have Opinions about all this if he told her. He resolved that he would not.)

Perhaps it was the run of bad luck so far that made Aziraphale look anxiously through the security peephole of his door before opening it. He doubted Crowley would be up this early, but there was no reason to risk crashing headlong into them on the landing, just in case. It was a narrow stairway down to the street.

The new route to work was simple enough, but of course there was a tube holdup. The platform was already packed; Aziraphale would never make it onto the next train. He climbed back to street level and jogged breathlessly to catch an overfilled rush hour bus. A seat came available near him, but he spotted a pregnant passenger making her unsteady way towards it. So he stepped aside with a gallant smile, feeling a moment of promise for the day at last -- the opportunity to do something nice for somebody else always cheered him up.

An oily-looking chap in sunglasses and a Stefano Ricci suit dodged into it and sat down, talking loudly on his mobile, just before she could get there. Aziraphale closed his eyes and winced.

As he disembarked, a passing dog took issue with him and lunged on its leash to express its displeasure. Dogs never did like him, and he couldn’t understand why. Anathema said he was too nervous around them. But he was nervous around everything, and since the dogs clearly were too, couldn't they have sympathised a little more?

By this time, Aziraphale was wide-eyed and wary, wondering whether he'd been hexed. He proceeded to the bookshop with practically paranoid caution. Just about now, he thought, some invisible director was probably cueing an extra to splash their smoothie all over him or hit him with a bicycle.

The bell on the door and the smell of the shop greeted him with the welcome warmth of an old friend's embrace. His oldest friend in London, as it happened. It was such a relief to return to the bookshop. The Ex had never spent much time there, for one, and for another Aziraphale always felt most at ease where he knew his role, where he was certain he belonged.

“What are you doing here?” Michael asked him brusquely.

He gaped at her, uncomprehending. “I -- w-whatever do you -- that is --”

Michael was a portrait of severe self-assurance. She wore a handsome double-breasted silver suit and cascading white lace at her throat. With a frown, she consulted the gleaming rose gold watch on her wrist.

“You're not due in for another hour,” she said.

+++

_Bollocks._

Crowley had promised himself he would get up early and go to the laundrette -- early meaning before noon -- even though he knew that wasn't how things were likely to go. Motivation was in tragically short supply at the best of times, and _before work_ was the worst of times. Who was there to care whether he behaved responsibly anyhow? The flat was clean, the cat was happy, and it wasn't like anybody else gave a fig what became of him.

So anyway. That didn't happen. As was usually the case, Crowley's plan to punish himself had worked, and now he was down to his last pair of socks.

He had in fact napped on the floor for a while after texting with Erik, not that it mattered. He'd relocated to the bed when he got up for a piss in the night, because turning forty was a whole thing, not that that mattered either. He awoke reasonably rested, but he snoozed his alarm a dozen times anyhow, because really, nothing _at all_ mattered. 

Eventually Siobhan snuck onto his pillow and curled up next to his face, purring and kneading madly. When she flounced away a few minutes later, Crowley finally rolled out of bed with a groan to get her a morsel of something -- and, well, maybe that mattered a little. Reasons to get out of bed today: one. One very small, very delicate, very fluffy reason.

He leaned against the worktop and downed bitter coffee while he watched her crunching her lunch with a little salmon on top. “Big plans for today?” he asked her. “Lie down here, lie down there, shed like the dickens? Steal my post?”

She twitched her sweeping black tail like an ostrich feather fan and divulged nothing. Crowley watched her until it was time to get started with the lint roller ritual so he could leave the house.

After concealing his tattoo carefully, pulling back his hair, and triple-checking that all the cat hair was safely removed, Crowley had a look through the spyhole to be sure the weird blond neighbour wasn't out there. He'd like as not left for the day hours ago, but just in case...there was no reason to run into not-Erik on the stairs, not if it could be avoided.

Crowley always got to work at least twenty minutes early -- being late even once could be grounds for dismissal -- and today he spent that interval trying to find a Sainsbury's or a Primark or _anywhere_ close enough to buy some plain black socks without a ridiculous touristy print. When he finally thought to look up a shoe store, Louboutin was listed first. Wrong fuckin' neighbourhood to have a basic human need on a tight schedule.

So laundry would be compulsory tomorrow; there'd be nothing open by the time he was free tonight. He gave up the search, bought and chugged another coffee, and headed for the service entrance of La Première. When he reached for the door, he froze.

_Fuck._

He'd forgotten to remove his nail polish.

Probably because of all the Erik and not-Erik drama. Or if not, they could take the blame anyhow; they'd never know.

Five minutes until Crowley's shift began, and not a shop anywhere in sight to remedy it. Fucking fuck fuck _fuck._

He dashed in the door and powerwalked down the service corridors, praying to somebody for some luck. Acetone, that was what did it, right? Acetone? But halfway to the cleaners’ storeroom he realised that even if he found any, the process would take far longer than five minutes, and the results would be more conspicuous than what he had now.

So. He'd spend the entire shift trying to hide his hands from the duty manager. And everybody else.

Crowley approached the staff lockers, heart pounding, and donned his uniform in record time: the starched shirt, the stiff white jacket, black bow tie and cummerbund. The armour, the carapace. He checked his hair to be sure not a strand had escaped the tight low bun he was required to wear.

And last, he took off his sunglasses and hid them in the pocket of his own black jacket, now up on the hanger. He pinched his nose to smooth out the marks they left and tried to breathe.

Luca, the headwaiter, rounded the corner. He was whistling to himself, the smug bastard. Crowley buried his hands in his locker again, pretending to rummage for something until the danger had passed.

It was gonna be a _night._

Crowley looked both ways, stood up very straight, clasped his hands behind him, and walked with unruffled dignity to his post.

+++

Not that anybody ever asked, but Aziraphale liked selling books. In fact he _loved_ it.

That is, he loved learning the stock and arranging the orders and managing his young coworkers on the floor. He loved making recommendations and befriending the regular customers. And he enjoyed dreaming up the event schedules, arranging for author signings and book launches and storytime. Michael gave him tremendous latitude as long as the numbers were good.

It was only working the till that was painful. So Aziraphale liked everything about being a bookseller except for actually selling books.

Unfortunately for him, Brian called in about arriving late because of dental work. An hour later he called in again, giggling, to explain that he'd needed more serious sedation than anticipated, so he would not be in any condition to work at all.

That news trapped Aziraphale at the till for the entire day, where he slowly developed a grinding headache, sore feet, and a suspicion that he'd upset a vindictive boggart. (Was the Rude Neighbour a boggart? Or a warlock? Or a Satanist, perhaps? They did have that snake tattooed on their temple.)

“Have you read _The Secret?”_ enquired the customer standing before him now. “It’ll change your life completely, I'm telling you.”

“So I hear,” Aziraphale replied with a nod. This particular shopper was a full two minutes into recommending self-help books that might have been useful to others, but which did not at all suit _him,_ and he felt tired and trapped, and his smile was wearing thin. “Thank you for coming in today. That will be £28.50, total,” he told her. “Or £28.55 if you’re in need of a bag.”

The customer had a handbag that was certainly large enough to fit her books. “Yes, please, I’ll take one,” she said anyway. Then she waved her mobile around in the air as if cleaning a blackboard, evidently expecting something to happen. Aziraphale sighed.

“Don't you have Apple Pay?” asked the lady with a frown.

“I'm afraid we do not; it's cash or chip and PIN here.”

“Ah. How quaint.” She frowned, biting back further commentary, but only just. “Well then. Let me find where my purse has got to...” She began to feel her way through the voluminous leather handbag. It could easily have contained a full picnic, with wine and glasses. And a blanket.

It was lucky there wasn’t a queue, because she poked through her things for quite some time before deciding to unpack every one of her belongings right onto the counter. A pair of gym shoes, recently used, was among them.

Aziraphale looked heavenwards and prayed to _somebody_ for patience. His smile was officially out of commission. His head throbbed.

The doorbell jingled and the sound of it scraped every nerve.

“Aziraphale!”

Anathema Device stormed into the shop, brisk and bold in Doc Marten platform boots. Today she wore an asymmetrical green skirt over torn silver jeans, a dark grey turtleneck, and a zippery, strappy, indigo biker jacket made of something that looked like -- but which was assuredly not -- leather. Aziraphale always enjoyed seeing his friend, but he also enjoyed _seeing_ her. She had an inspired instinct for fashion, and it was likely she’d made everything she was wearing herself. Save the boots.

Anathema bustled behind the counter for a hug without hesitation. She was officious and focused even in her affection. Aziraphale allowed the hug briefly, but he pushed away and gestured to her, _one moment,_ indicating that he was with a customer.

So Anathema turned and stood close by him as though she, too, worked at Chesterton’s. And for her first act as a hypothetical employee, she glared at the Lady of the Large Handbag ferociously through her round tortoiseshell glasses. She was petite, but she exuded the aura of a force to be reckoned with. Because she was.

The customer visibly quailed, and began making a far more earnest effort to find her purse. She’d paid and packed up within moments.

Anathema turned to Aziraphale with purpose. She did everything with purpose. “How’re you?” she asked.

“Very well, my dear, and you?” he replied, which wasn't exactly true, but it was expedient, since they didn't really have time to get into it at the moment.

“Only three weeks left,” she said, frowning intently. “What do you have in the way of thank you notes? And I still have to find personal gifts for the whole wedding party.”

“If you'll accompany me, madam, the stationery's just here.” He risked walking over with her, but he kept an eye on the other customers browsing. “Do you know everyone well enough to choose gifts for them?”

“Some. My mother's difficult. And my maid of honour.” Anathema studied the assortment of cards and envelopes diligently, left to right, one shelf at a time. “And how are you _really,_ Aziraphale?” she asked.

“Oh, I can’t complain,” he sighed. “A little sleep-deprived, that’s all.”

She smirked a little. “Oh? Getting up to trouble now that you're a free man?”

He huffed half a laugh amiably, though the way she'd asked the question pained him somewhat. “Not as such,” Aziraphale said. “It's just -- you know -- the change of venue. New sounds, new lights, new...furniture.”

Anathema had gone with him to pick out the bed only a few days before. Her fiancé Newton had helped to hoist it up the stairs.

“Yeah, I guess there's an adjustment period in a new place,” she said sympathetically. “Do you have lunch soon?”

“I've already taken it, I'm afraid,” he told her.

He wouldn't have a lunch break today, of course; they were short staffed. He might find a few minutes to eat in the office if foot traffic slowed. Or if Pepper could give him a break, once she finished finding space in the back for the pallets of new books that were currently blocking the fire exit. 

But there was no reason to tell Anathema about that. She already fretted over him more than enough. She fretted about everything she couldn't fix. Getting acquainted with her had upended all of Aziraphale’s stereotypes about Californians.

Anathema ran her fingertips over a box of fine navy blue cards accented in chartreuse. They looked far more like _her_ than all the ivory and white.

“I'll see you Thursday for happy hour, though?” Aziraphale asked her in a hopeful tone.

“Yes! Absolutely. I'll bring the wine.”

“I'll supply the cheese.”

“Deal.” She picked up the navy stationery, as Aziraphale had known she would. He enjoyed anticipating his friends' tastes. Well, his friend's tastes, he thought, mentally moving the apostrophe.

He glanced over at the counter. Nobody appeared impatient to make a purchase, so he waved Anathema over to an endcap display he'd constructed a few days previously. “For your mother...I thought perhaps...”

 _“Oh!_ You genius, you!” She pounced on the oversized photo books of fashion illustration and photography.

“I admit I thought of you while I set up the display,” Aziraphale told her. “But these would seem to suit her as well.”

Anathema reverently turned the pages of a collection on men's fine suiting through history, gasping at some of the details in close-up. “This is perfect. I know I complain about the whole dynasty thing, but it's handy we have some things in common. ...One of these might even do for my maid of honour. Or my aunt. I thought I'd be out all day searching for I-don't-know-what, and you got it sussed out in less than a minute! I'm so glad I came to you first.”

“Well, you always know who to call.” Aziraphale smiled, feeling just the slightest bit proud, and hoping that his headache might be winding down at last.

“Oh! By the way, that coat's ready for another fitting,” she said. “And Paolo says it has to be from the fifties at the latest. Don't know how you ever found it; I never score at charity shops like you do.”

He blushed. “It takes a great deal of patience. And free time.”

“When's your next day off? Or I can just bring it with me on Thursday. You have that full-length mirror, so I could do it at your place.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to tell her that he had actually put the heavy antique mirror in the wardrobe, where he couldn't see it -- but he thought better of it and said nothing. He could set it up for her arrival and then hide it again. It was a bit _much,_ a large mirror in a studio flat. He had no bedroom to retreat to, nowhere to hide.

“Hmm, this one's almost right, but...the maid of honour is tricky. And the officiant.” Anathema closed a large volume celebrating haberdashery and frowned thoughtfully into the middle distance. “What have you got in the way of other pretty coffee table books? Like science or art? Maybe I could sort of make this my _thing_ for this round of gifts.”

“And how would you carry them home on your bicycle?” laughed Aziraphale.

Anathema frowned harder and whipped out her ever-present bullet journal. It was immaculately maintained, perfectly colour coded and indexed. She was all in on the new craze. “I suppose since I'm finishing this errand so quickly, I'll have some time for...oh, and I can't do lunch with you, anyway. So yeah, I'll get a taxi and just come back here.” She took a fine-tipped pen from her pocket, checked off several items, and began making a note.

“Are you actually writing 'take a cab to transport books for' -- oh, you _are,_ aren't you,” he teased, shaking his head.

“What? It helps me know what to do.”

Aziraphale put up his hands. “I've no quibble with your methods, I'm simply impressed with your meticulous organisation. The other photo books are just this way, we have several topics...”

In the end, Anathema bought so many volumes she couldn't even carry them all in one load. She had some on nature, some on art and architecture, some on food, some on history.

“This may throw off our sales log for the day,” Aziraphale observed as he rang up her purchases. “Or the week, or the month. Michael will never believe the report.”

“Can't think of a better place to drop a load of money,” Anathema grinned. She smoothed the cover of the book on top of the pile, _Our Expanding Universe._ “Soooooo have you thought at all about what I said?”

Aziraphale winced. “I -- I can't think about it just now, but I do promise to. Really I do. This has been a rather overwhelming week.”

“Let me know when you get around to it. I _do_ think it would help.” Anathema cocked her head and studied him closely. She probably had that on her to-do list today as well. “You sure you're all right?”

“Absolutely tip top, my dear,” he told her. And if they both knew it was aspirational more than truthful, that was fine. Anathema kindly let it go.

Her presence marked the one unequivocally bright spot in Aziraphale's day. As soon as she’d been bundled out of the door and into a black cab with her three loads of books, the shop was swarmed by a cadre of elderly women who had many pointed questions, hearing difficulties, strong opinions, and no patience for a shop not in possession of the obscure bodice-ripper they wanted eight copies of for their book club. 

When they finally left, broody as chickens, Aziraphale found a half of a Frappucino precariously perched on a shelf. The plastic cup was beaded with water, nearly touching the spines of the more expensive cookbooks. It had clearly been set there to test Aziraphale’s faith in humanity.

He harumphed as he snatched the abandoned beverage and made for the loo to dump it out.

On his way, he nearly stepped on a pile of books lying jumbled on the floor. One of them was open, face down, the pages cruelly bent. It happened to be _The Secret._

+++

Uncorking wine turned out to be the most hazardous task of the evening. 

When he poured, Crowley could hide his fingertips in the white napkin wrapped around the bottle. When he served, he could hold the plates and the trays just so. While taking orders and reciting specials with a well-rehearsed smile, the hands stayed behind the back. A sympathetic commis waiter had agreed to help with a few of the service and silver changes Crowley would’ve usually done himself.

But cutting the foil, clutching the bottle, twisting the corkscrew -- that was a vulnerable moment. People so often watched that part. It was a highlight of the charming performance Crowley had to put on, table after table after table.

And table sixteen had been a bitch tonight. Four hours, _four bloody hours_ they'd stayed.

They were _polite_ the whole time, of course, offering their thanks for the twentieth time as they paid the bill without leaving a tip. Polite and buttoned-up and tyrannical. The English legacy, Crowley thought bitterly as he wove his way across the floor. A little half an island that had very *nice* manners while it subjugated more of the world than Genghis Khan had ever dreamed --

Crowley reined in his cynical inner monologue (and his habitual gesticulations) to communicate to the chef running the pass why table eight had sent back the steak au poivre.

“What was their complaint?” asked Sam.

“Apparently they dislike pepper.” _And didn’t think to ask what ‘poivre’ means,_ Crowley added silently. Sam was surely thinking it as well, but that sort of thing wasn't said. Not out on the floor. Food was sent back every night for far more ridiculous reasons. 

“Is there a rush order to replace it?”

Crowley tried to keep a straight face. “The filet mignon, ‘but make it keto,’ is their request. No further details.”

That elicited a hint of a sigh from the beleaguered chef. He punched the special order into his terminal and waved to get the line chef’s attention through the window. “A rush with a side substitution,” he told them. Crowley took advantage of his distraction to load the next tray of starters while Sam wasn’t looking, and then he was off across the floor again.

The menu clearly said no substitutions. It hardly mattered. When the meals cost this much, the clientele expected what they expected.

Once in a while, diners would come to La Première having saved up and dreamed of it for ages -- overwhelmed doe-eyed honeymooners, passionate home chefs being treated by their grown children, retired couples who had wondered their whole lives what a Michelin star tasted like.

They spent their precious hours at the restaurant in rapturous appreciation. Like table four, the two widowers making a night of it, toasting something grand with every sip. Crowley admitted to having a soft spot for those types. Sometimes.

As long as they weren’t bloody proposing. God, proposals were the worst; there were a dozen every weekend, and the blokes always expected some ridiculous special procedure they saw on reality TV that violated health and safety and took up far too much staff time (“No, I’m afraid we cannot arrange for a balloon drop. No, the floor staff will not gather tableside to sing something. No, we cannot bake the ring into the gâteau opéra, and if you enjoy your beloved’s teeth intact you should stop asking”). Not to mention the couples were always shocked when the Dom Perignon or celebratory dessert they ordered actually appeared on the bill at the end of the night. As if the magic of an imminent wedding gave them amnesty for the associated expenses. Ha! Did they have another think coming there.

Table twenty looked like it might have a proposal brewing. Although it was a Monday night, and there weren’t any special instructions, so it was possible the boy in the rumpled suit only had that look on his face because he was intimidated by the amount of cutlery before him, and the girl in the gown who'd had her hair done up for the evening only stared expectantly because she wanted him to say something, anything.

Crowley swept over to the nervous couple and set down their dishes of chilled tomato consommé with a steaming basket of bread. At least now they could eat instead of trying to talk. With the knuckle of his index finger, Crowley subtly nudged the boy’s soup spoon just a centimeter above the rest before departing.

Table eight -- of the pepper steak rejection -- was a quartet of loud, middle-aged Americans. The sort of loud, middle-aged Americans who sought out starred restaurants on vacation. They had already snapped their fingers at Crowley once, shouting “Garçon!” and they'd laughed like it was a terrific joke when he hurried over just to keep them from yelling again. Since their arrival, they'd acted as though Crowley was employed to stand and chat with them all night, and they asked dozens of absurd questions about London, England, the queen, the palace guard, his job, his wife and kids, his red hair, how he pronounced things.

“What’s the altitude here?” one of the men had asked him.

“By my estimate, perhaps twenty meters, sir,” he replied with his service smile. “And the _latitude_ here is fifty-one degrees north of the equator.”

The guest didn’t seem to understand either answer very well. But it wasn’t as if it mattered. In Crowley's extensive experience, American tourists might ask about everything but they seldom listened to the answers. In the course of the evening, this quartet's grasp of culture, history, and geography -- not to mention the ins and outs of French cuisine and table manners -- had proven rudimentary at best.

Now they were laughing far too loudly for the space and disturbing their neighbours with ribald jokes and talk of politics. Despite the fact that one woman didn’t have her steak, the other three had nearly finished their meals. Crowley stopped by to see if they wanted more wine.

They did, of course. They wanted “the wine that was the most expensive but still sweet for the ladies,” the loudest man insisted, whatever that meant. When asked whether they wanted red or white, one of the women said “in between” but refused the rosé and the sparkling wines Crowley suggested. None of them knew their way around port, sherry, or Sauternes well enough to give him any more clues. 

There was an outside chance he could flatter them into thinking their _distinguished_ palates had selected the best bottle in the house -- and bring them a boring Eiswein that happened to be pricey because it was rare and heavily marketed, not because it was any good. But if he opened an expensive bottle and they were in the mood to send it back just for the fun of asking for another, the Eiswein would be an unfortunate misstep. The bar would never sell it by the glass before it turned.

Unfortunately, Crowley reflected, he was not allowed to serve them turpentine.

“Oh, by the way, tell the chef the duck was undersalted,” said the loudest man. “Kinda bland.”

Crowley’s eyes flicked down to the man's plate. He’d scraped it clean. “I’m sorry to hear it disappointed, sir.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Jerry! He liked it,” said the woman next to him. “He’s just learning to cook at home, and he has an instinct for these things.”

“I dabble, y’know,” said Jerry.

“Nice nails,” chuckled the man seated next to Jerry.

_F U C K. Fuck._

Crowley's flowing service rhythm crashed to a halt. He had been collecting their empty wine glasses -- force of habit -- but he was usually unobserved during cleanup tasks. Nobody ever cared how the mess was cleared away.

His heart hammered. He opened his mouth to explain and no sound came out.

“My daughter used to wanna play beauty parlour with me, too, at that age,” laughed the American.

Nearly choking with relief, Crowley grinned broadly. “Aye, and mine got me this time. She’s done a fine job, don’t you think?”

“I can’t believe you let her!” crooned Jerry’s partner. “That’s so cute!”

Jerry made a face that said he didn’t think it was cute, but his phone rang loudly and for some reason he answered it by shouting “What?!” 

Crowley nodded deferentially to the table and made haste to escape with the tray of used dishes. He strode past the diplomat clearly out with his mistress. Past the very expensive date that was going very badly. Past the couple having the hissing domestic quarrel that was making the people around them uncomfortable. Past the older couple who hadn't stopped scrolling through their phones even while they ordered. Only one of those tables was Crowley's tonight, but every waiter worth their salt kept an eye on the entire floor.

Much as he sometimes resented every scrap of pressed linen, Crowley was more than a little proud of the fifteen years of disciplined and outstanding service it took to rise to an institution like La Première. Admittedly, it also took a certain genius for timing and an exceptional talent for reading people, and Crowley knew well enough he only had those through dumb luck. He’d coasted where others struggled. He could intuit each individual customer’s mood, he always knew what it was they really wanted, and that was the heart of the job. 

Because most diners didn't come for the food. They came in search of a feeling of validation. Of worthiness. They came for attention. Affirmation. Reassurance that they were the kind of people who deserved to be here, among the elite.

Despite the four-hour party and the Americans and the couple having the spat, it was the farthest table in the darkest corner, table thirty, that ultimately proved to be the hardest of the night. Four guests, all locals, likely repeat customers, who couldn't have seen Crowley if they’d tried. Not that they would ever try. They didn't need him to perform or entertain; he didn't have to worry about dishes being sent back or misunderstandings about the wine list. No, the service was easy enough -- fetch and carry, pour and clear. He was invisible.

And because he was invisible, his attention was undivided as he listened to their dispassionate discussion of the fates of tens of millions of people -- which were genuinely in their hands -- like so many pieces on a chessboard. They were very well-spoken, very well-mannered, and completely self-assured. They were simply _taking care of things,_ as they saw it, _smoothing the way_ through any _complications_ and clearing any _roadblocks to growth._

And though they never framed it in such terms, their evident plan was to exercise their considerable power to methodically sicken and impoverish certain expendable workers, to create a food scarcity here to increase profit there, to stoke certain conflicts in certain nations, and to burn the planet faster -- all this in order to preserve and increase private fortunes. None of those unpleasant outcomes would be intentional, of course. Nobody _intends_ those sorts of things. The four Deciders gestured and nodded earnestly, sympathetically, understanding one another. They made suggestions and reinforced one another's positions with the thoughtless ease of puppetmasters who know their role in the world, who pull the strings with subtlety and purpose.

They did not want affirmation or attention. They did not wonder whether they deserved to be here. They were not known to the public, and they did not want to be. They didn't want for anything, Crowley thought, watching them smile and sip their coffee at the end of the meal. Perhaps they had forgotten how wanting felt, since there was nothing they could not have.

Crowley invisibly vanished their mess and asked if they required anything more. They did not. They smiled politely in his direction without seeing him.

His nails were safely hidden anyway, because his fists were clenched.

He needed to hit something.

He returned to his post.

Table twenty did yield a proposal in the end. It just took a little time for the couple to relax and warm up to one another; it _was_ a high-pressure, expensive night out for them, after all. But after one glass of wine for courage, and then another for luck, she got down on one knee and popped the question. Her intended wiped his eyes and laughed the laugh of someone deeply relieved.

Even without any special instructions, Crowley was there with champagne and a dessert cart in less than a minute. He knew what people wanted. And he was there to serve.

+++

Aziraphale returned to his new home -- or at least his new flat -- feeling as fatigued as it was possible to feel. Two minutes after he collapsed into his comfortable old wingback reading chair, he realised he had forgotten to purchase earplugs. And groceries. He'd meant to, on the way home, but he'd been unlucky enough to catch a train that had to pause on the tracks for ten sickeningly uncomfortable minutes between tube stations. The heat had made him feel faint, and the piercing cry of an infant through most of the experience did nothing for his headache.

By the time Aziraphale disembarked to the familiar singsong tune of _Mind the Gap,_ his only imaginable destination was straight home.

Not home, he sighed, not at all home. It felt _nothing_ like home. He had his books and his knick knacks and his chair, but nothing else was familiar. 

When was the last time he'd felt at home? He’d just come from Tracy’s, and although he would be forever grateful that she'd let him sleep on her pull-out couch for three months, he’d been a guest there, preoccupied with leaving as small a footprint as he could. Before that, living with Gabriel -- well. It had been many things, but 'homey' was not one of them. Going back further still, B.G. (Before Gabriel), there was the ordinary struggle of trying to stay afloat in an expensive city: hopping from place to place, sometimes with quirky flatmates, sometimes without, trying to stay a step ahead of the dramatically rising rents. Back then, Aziraphale had at least been able to manage a tiny one-bedroom on his own. Now it was a studio flat. At least he was still in the city.

His stomach rumbled -- he needed food. And he _really_ needed to curb the old impulse to order takeaway for every meal. He'd be out on his ear in no time if he didn’t. 

But the only food in the house tonight was bread and eggs, and he was utterly spent. He'd arrived with very few groceries, and he'd be starting from scratch building a collection of condiments and spices. Not that he was likely to cook very adventurously anymore, now that he was on his own.

So...just this once, Aziraphale sighed, just for tonight. He searched for cheap delivery and found dozens of mouthwatering options nearby -- _oh dear._ Restraint would prove difficult indeed. He settled on Indian food, reasoning that a strategic order could last him for two meals instead of one.

While he waited for it to arrive, he took stock of...of everything.

It looked bleak. And felt bleak. But he was hungry and tired, he reminded himself; he'd been on the till all day and skipped lunch and got stuck on the tube, so now was really not the time to make any sweeping generalisations about his new situation. What he needed was a meal, a hot bath, and a good night's sleep.

The food turned out to be lovely. And he liked the friendly teenager who delivered it -- not one of those Dash-n-Dine drivers, or whatever they were called, but the actual grandson of the restaurant owners down the street. He resolved to continue his patronage there. That resolution was adamantly reinforced when he tasted the lamb biryani.

But as for the bath, the drain plug was ill-suited to its intended purpose, and the hot water only lasted long enough to fill the tub halfway up. An awkward sponge bath with a bowl for rinsing off was all he managed. He tried not to think about the long hot soak he had been hoping for through much of the day.

And as for bed -- even though he retired early on the brand new mattress, even though he was bone-weary and overwrought, he lay awake for an hour at least. The noise of the street and the surrounding bars filtered through the open window. So did the early summer heat. Strange lights crossed the room as vehicles passed, and sirens sounded, one near, one far. The building settled as the temperature changed with unfamiliar creaks and groans. And the sheets felt all wrong somehow, even though he'd just picked them out new. How was it possible Tracy's pull-out sofa was more restful than this? The old thin spring mattress had sagged like a cereal bowl, and there’d been that awful bar across the middle of his back.

He was far too old to be living like this, he thought glumly, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

He didn't know when he finally dropped off, but he came to sitting bolt upright, terrified and sweaty, awakened by a _crash bang boom._

Once he grasped what was happening, he checked the time on his phone. 00:15.

Crowley had practised on and off for nearly three hours the night before.

Aziraphale gave in to his burning frustration and moaned out loud.

The sound grew into a full-on roar of aggravation as he realised that he, too, could make noise. He didn't care whether the Rude Neighbour heard, and there was nobody else listening to him, no one to hear the wretched sound of _this._

Just -- all this.

All of it.

Tomorrow, Aziraphale decided, he was going to make some changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where my rugged service industry veterans at? Holla.
> 
> [rubbing hands together gleefully] Every chapter I post just makes me more excited to share the next one. Thanks so much for reading, I can't wait to show you what's coming!!!!!!!
> 
> I had much help brainstorming a Worst Day Ever for our poor boys (sorry not sorry). Special thanks to @sungmee, @cassieoh, @moondawntreader, @madeofmydreams, @zehwulf, @musegnome, @fenrislorsrai, @liquid_lyrium, @saretton, @isleofsolitude, @minervamoon, @doomed_spectacles, @LadyDragona, @kittyknowsthings, @nightbloomingcereus, and @SylviaW1991 for furiously dreaming up (and remembering!) all the worst customers there are. Tip your servicepeople, people.
> 
> Comment if you, like me and the best beta @willowherb, are on team Siobhan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: misuse of timeless musical masterpieces. Footnote links lead to audio if you want to be reminded what they sound like.
> 
> N.B.: There's a reason every work mentioned below is a classic -- they were all important in their day, and they're beloved by millions now. I use all of these works myself to teach music and the love of it, and so did Disney and Warner Brothers (thanks Bugs). 
> 
> So if *you* like the music that our leading characters are abusing here, that's GOOD, because A) so does most of the music listening world and B) these two are canonically Big Ol' Snobs. Love your playlists fearlessly, friends.

Vivaldi. _What._ Fucking Vivaldi? Fuck. _No._ Fuck no!

Crowley snarled like an animal as he flailed out of the covers, reaching for his phone. The cat jumped from her contented little coil at his feet and ran.

It was 6 fucking 30.

Which was _WAY_ too early for 'Spring'1 and that blasted chirpy fucking violin solo through the wall at _OVER A HUNDRED FUCKING DECIBELS._ The neighbour might think it was cute to exact his revenge by blasting a concerto but _THIS,_ this _VIVALDI_ was a fucking _INSULT,_ the most clichéd imaginable choice for morning music, it was probably the bugger's favourite piece, it was _definitely_ his ringtone, he was probably over there fucking humming along cheerfully and picking out another bloody bow tie --

So yes, point taken, fine, Crowley had practised the night before, but _FUCK._ It wasn’t his fucking fault he’d come home with a powerful need to smash something safely smashable. That was what the drums were fucking _FOR._ And now he was thinking in _ALL CAPS_ before seven in the sodding morning because he was being subjected to the musical equivalent of a Red Bull chased with espresso.

He yowled with displeasure and pounded the bedroom wall -- not that it could be heard over the goddamn harpsichord trills -- and got up to find his isolation headphones.

It wasn’t just work that'd made him smashy -- although that was more than enough to do it on the day-to-day -- it was that band practice had also been a _total_ wash. Crowley was always frantic rolling up at ten thirty (ninety minutes late because he worked till at least ten and nobody else could stay up anymore, what with all the kids and grown-up responsibilities and shit) and he'd arrived as usual to the rest of them already talking through the playlist and making artistic decisions while Crowley scrambled to set up the cheap trap kit he left there and turn the thousand screws on all the stands -- because Hastur wouldn’t fucking let him leave the thing set up, he had to break it all down every time, even though it was in a shed that sat unused the rest of the week where it was safe from the kids, and anyway if the kids got to it, they might make some noise and have some fun but it wasn't like they could really damage it --

But the point, the _POINT_ was that they’d all acted like he wasn’t even _THERE_ when it was Crowley who’d fucking _STARTED_ the whole endeavour and wrote half the bloody songs, and it was also definitely Crowley who got stuck with all the promo and logistical work because he was the one with “nobody at home to distract him”; and so anyway when the kit was finally set up, Hastur wanted to cut another of the songs where Crowley sang lead because he “wasn’t sure the audience could see him behind the kit on an elevated stage and it’s weird if the voice is coming from nowhere, so maybe you should do harmonies only” and _FUCK. THAT._

And then on the way home, Crowley had stopped by the pub to see Erik, just to touch base, and he’d been smiley and all, but within minutes it became pretty fucking clear that whatever they’d had was just a friendship of convenience for the kid and there would be no more movie nights. And what a blow _that_ was, to hang out with someone for a year and think you had a real human connection going on, when it turned out they were only doing it because you were _around_ and you were a _customer._ Which Erik remembered, promising they could meet up another day if Crowley was still interested in edibles, which he was, because he was _out,_ and Crowley fucking hated smoking because he was a singer but he’d been so wound up when he got home that he'd partaken of half an old joint anyway, just so he could fucking _sleep_ after practice --

And to be honest, he’d basically forgotten about the new neighbour last night; it might have crossed his mind once or twice while he was playing, but he couldn’t just _not_ practise, and after work was the only reasonable time to do it, and _COULD THAT BLASTED FIDDLER JUST STOP WITH THE ARPEGGIOS ALREADY, WE GET IT, YOU PLAYED YOUR WARM-UPS TODAY, YOU CAN'T JUST DO THEM AGAIN AND CALL IT A CONCERTO --_

The Vivaldi was really fucking loud. Seriously, it was resonating his snare and cymbals on every low note.

Well. Fair play to the non-Erik neighbour. Message fucking received.

Crowley knew every note of _The Four Seasons_ and he hated most of them. Which was possibly the result of being forced to analyse the basso continuo for hours and hours in his first year of music theory. Honestly, Bach or Mozart he could have survived; Beethoven or Bartok or Shostakovich he might have enjoyed, depending.

But _this_ \-- Crowley grabbed his isolation headphones with unnecessary force, popping the cord out of the sound system, and he flopped back into bed with the massive things compressing his ears. The cans did block some of the sound, but he already knew they’d hurt his head and give him acne if he left them on too long. 

And it didn't matter anyway. He knew the music too well. He was filling in all the muffled bits in his head.

Crowley fumed and swiped through his phone, wondering what he could do that would _reeeeeally_ get under a pretentious vindictive custom-suit-wearing Soho-gentrifying bookseller’s skin.

The fuck was his name?

Crowley racked his brain and tugged his hair, trying to replay their encounter two nights ago. He remembered a lot of it, but not that. And the strings were driving him _crazy --_

He focused, trying to visualise the stodgy little pest. The name was odd, he remembered -- it was strange, old-fashioned -- it had a weird letter in it. Q. No, Zed. Something old, something biblical -- _that’s_ it, book of the Bible! Which one --

The moment Google displayed an index of the Old Testament was the same moment Crowley remembered.

“Ezra!” he shouted triumphantly.

And then Crowley did something he’d sworn he would never _ever_ do again: he directed his browser to amazon.co.uk.

+++

Aziraphale felt rather chipper for someone on their second night of three hours’ sleep. Giddy delirium and caffeine carried him more than anything else, and admittedly a pinch of self-satisfied glee at having served up some mischief. Although he could barely tolerate _The Four Seasons_ himself, it certainly was -- well, perky, first thing in the morning. It had woken _him_ up, and that was saying something.

(Poor Antonio Vivaldi. The man wrote hundreds of arias and concerti, and centuries later people would still be clamouring at him to play the hits. Aziraphale quite enjoyed his lesser-known operas or the _Dixit Dominus;_ it was just that this particular work was so very _extra,_ as Pepper would have said.)

This was all new. This impulse to stand up for himself, this belief in his own right to his space -- he had never quite been able to manage it with Gabriel. Nor with anybody else, if he was honest with himself.

He found himself humming happily throughout his work day, sometimes ‘Spring’, sometimes something else, to celebrate what his therapist would’ve surely described as a tremendous leap in a positive direction. If perhaps a petty one. Why the breakthrough? How? Perhaps it was because Crowley was a stranger; maybe that made this easier than confronting the Ex. Or perhaps something in him had simply snapped. Maybe Aziraphale had been pushed far enough, and he was ready -- for what might have been the first time in his life -- to push back.

He made it home with groceries that evening, including earplugs and melatonin. Plus a new plug for the tub and some heavy duty tin foil for the kitchenette window until he could get proper blackout curtains. He wrangled everything he’d bought up the creaking stairs with care; it was exactly as much as he could carry.

When he reached the top, he was surprised to see a large cardboard box leaning against his door. He set his considerable burden down on the landing and cautiously picked up the package.

 _The mark of the beast._ The familiar logo on the box caused a reflexive revulsion, which deepened into nausea when he realised that it wasn't a misdelivery -- it was addressed to Ezra Whinger.

The box was hardly sealed at all, clearly not the work of anyone who cared about its contents. Ridiculous warehouses and exploitative mass-produced race-to-the-bottom -- _pah!_ Aziraphale bit his tongue to still the well-rehearsed inner monologue and ripped the tape away easily. Anxiety scrabbled up and down his ribs.

The box contained several bags of puffed air, a giant-size tub of earplugs, and a special edition copy of _Fifty Shades of Grey._

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed.

Yesterday he might have felt cowed by this belittling provocation. But today a charge of righteous wrath swept through him. He shivered. The fury was so pure it was almost enjoyable.

Right then and there, he turned and knocked boldly on the Rude Neighbour's door. There was no answer. What were Crowley's hours? Where did they work? Did they work at all? Was Crowley a model or a legitimate rock star from a band Aziraphale had never heard of? (Not that he’d have heard of any lately.) 

He placed the odds at fifty/fifty. Their jeans had looked custom finished, and while he hadn't been able to spot the brand, at a guess he'd say they were very expensive, just like the sunglasses. 

But it didn't matter how famous Crowley was. Or wasn’t. They could learn to play nice. Surely the two of them could reach some sort of arrangement.

Aziraphale resolved to try again as soon as his neighbour returned. He felt very little of the doubt that had plagued him two nights before. Shots had been fired; it was time for a parlay.

+++

_“Wot?”_ Crowley spat.

“I said, I wonder if we might reach some sort of arrangement,” Ezra repeated, politely but forcefully.

Crowley stepped out onto the landing and closed the door behind him so Siobhan couldn't come investigate the stairs. “Such as?”

“Clearly our -- our sleep schedules are different,” Ezra said with a tight-lipped smile, “but if we were to exchange information, perhaps we could accommodate one another. To whatever extent is reasonable, of course.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and hissed air through his teeth. He'd been up early to do laundry and then worked a double shift for a lot of ostentatious wankers who dressed and talked exactly like _this_ patronising toff, and at the moment he was _unbelievably_ ready to take a shower and go straight to bed.

He ran a hand through his greasy hair. “Look, mate, I just got home, I'm dead on my feet, an' I can't think straight. I'm not ready to be accosted right now.”

“Nobody's accosting anybody,” Ezra insisted, hands clasped piously in front of him like some kind of nun. “I’m simply seeking some assurance that I'll be permitted to sleep tonight. I've already stayed up several hours to speak to you.”

 _Nobody's accosting anybody,_ Crowley thought, wrinkling his nose. He was feeling pretty damned accosted. This familiar strain of false, smiling politeness triggered his defenses like nothing else.

“So take a nap,” Crowley offered, with a mockery of a gracious hand wave. “I didn’t ask you to stay up.”

Ezra took a deep breath and appeared to compose himself with some effort. “I would have done, if I could have known when you would return. If, if, if we could have communicated. All I propose is that we exchange schedules -- a-a-and phone numbers -- so that we can show some consideration for one another.”

“What, and then you'd make me practise in the morning? First thing on waking up?” In the back of his mind, Crowley knew that this was far from an unreasonable demand, but he was bloody exhausted, his ire was up, and he was hearing the wretched violins in his head again now that he was confronted by this committed Victorian-era re-enactor. Seriously, had he just come from rehearsals for _Little Dorrit?_ He even had a bloody pocket watch on a chain. Every stitch of the stuff looked authentic, too, custom fit and high-end; it was very expensive, wearing what Ezra was wearing.

And pulling it off, which he admittedly did. Crowley tried to imagine him in a hoodie and failed utterly. It had never happened. It would never happen.

“You may practise at any hour you choose,” said Ezra in a condescending tone. “I cannot possibly make that decision for you. But it would be nice of you to consider _not_ practising during the six or seven hours I need to sleep.”

“Nice? It would be _nice_ of me to _consider?”_ Crowley sneered, unable to resist imitating Ezra's formal RP accent.

“I can choose another adjective, if you prefer.”

Crowley crossed his arms and stood up to his full height. “Yeah? Do. _If_ you would be so kind.”

Ezra straightened up too, rising out of his politely deferential stance. Much to Crowley’s surprise, they were nearly of a height. 

“Legal,” said Ezra. “It would be _legal_ if you were to practise anytime you like, _except_ for the hours during which noise of this volume is defined as a nuisance, between 11pm and 7am!”

Crowley snorted angrily.

“Or we could go back to nice,” Ezra added. He was going a little red in the face.

 _Fuck nice,_ Crowley thought. Nice was meaningless; nice was fake. Nice was what he had to pretend to be all day. Right now his stomach was growling and his feet hurt, and this tosser was on his last nerve. _That_ was authentic, that was real. 

The neighbour could be _nice_ if he wanted to. Crowley was not that way inclined, thank you very much.

“Is that a threat?” he asked testily. “You gonna phone Scotland Yard ‘n beg for backup?”

“Or write to the local council, as that is the procedure, yes.”

“This is Soho,” Crowley scoffed. “Council will do fuck all.”

The neighbour’s clasped hands were going white at the knuckles. “Be that as it may, I see no reason for us to escalate these unpleasantries any further --”

 _“Unpleasantries?”_ Fuck this. Crowley was more than done.

He opened his door, blocking the aperture with a heel to thwart any little escape artists. “Unpleasantries,” he grumbled in a mocking tone. “Yeah. _Sure._ Unpleasant. That's me, in the flesh. A nuisance. _Welcome to the bloody neighbourhood._ Take a nap, wear some earplugs, and _deal._ Or don't. I do not give one single shit.”

As he went through he opened the door a little wider than he needed to, just for the satisfaction of slamming it shut.

And he hadn't actually planned to practise after his obscenely long day, but Crowley was shot through with adrenaline and spite, and if that made him a bad person, _so the fuck what,_ there were far worse people in the world and he’d just served half of them cocktails and it didn't fucking matter what else he did.

Crowley played for ninety minutes even though he was starving. Didn’t matter. Drumming felt good. He ate his shift meal cold out of the box and fell dead asleep at three with a smug smile on his face.

Four hours later, the Nice Neighbour did, in fact, escalate.

 _Pachelbel._ 2

+++

Aziraphale was practically incoherent at work. Adam and Pepper, his young colleagues, made him lie on the floor in the back room for a while when he passed out on top of the payroll paperwork.

He was sensible enough after that, however, to order and same-day ship a novelty alarm clock to one Crowley McFiend, with an enclosed note that it was a gift “to assist him in remembering the time.” The clock face was embedded in a pastel porcelain unicorn on a lumpy cloud, which also projected stars onto the ceiling with an LED. The packaging boasted that the device would say the time aloud on the hour, and it happened to do so in a ridiculous voice with an accompanying whinny. The sample sound clips were delightful.

Adam and Pepper had wanted to know about the unicorn clock, of course, and that was how they got deeply invested in the neighbourly feud. They had a number of helpful suggestions throughout the day. And a few unhelpful ones. Aziraphale wound up giving them a lecture on the dangers of flashing lights, choking hazards, and potential allergens that sounded _much_ sterner than he intended, but then he was very, very tired.

On Wednesday night there was blessed silence after eleven. 

But it didn’t matter, because Aziraphale lay awake in bed anyway, agonised, cursing himself for signing a year-long lease. He was so anxious for the ordeal to begin that he couldn’t seize the opportunity to sleep even when the flat was quiet. He finally drifted off fitfully around one.  
  
Crowley had their revenge with a crash and a bang at 04:30, just to change things up. 

And they had apparently added a cowbell to their battery.

A scant two hours later, with no small amount of moaning and groaning, Aziraphale dropped the needle on _Der Ring des Nibelungen,_ The Ring Cycle.3

Wagner could last him for days. Since he was feeling extra salty, he started Side C just as he left for work, knowing his trusty turntable had an auto stop. From the street he could hear Brunhilde's high notes literally rattling the windows.

On the way to the bookshop, he left Anathema a voicemail asking for a rain check on happy hour. He could hardly stand, let alone be happy. He wondered whether Crowley was approaching the same state.

But on reflection, Aziraphale knew that he, himself, was definitely faring worse so far. Drum practice interrupted his sleep for hours, while the high-volume Classical wake-up call could only last for forty-five minutes before he had to go to work. Besides which, Aziraphale could hardly stand it himself; Wagner was a bit much first thing in the morning, and playing Pachelbel on a loop might have been just as nauseating for him as for the Rude Neighbour. 

After work, Aziraphale stopped by a record store in search of new candidates that wouldn't set his teeth on edge. Or that were funny enough to be worth it if they did.

When he got home that night, he found an envelope on the floor, presumably pushed under the door by the Rude Neighbour. He sat down to examine it with a sinking feeling, telling himself that if he didn't hope for a peace offering, he wouldn't be disappointed when he opened it.

He was not. He was infuriated.

The finest of pink glitter settled all over him and his reading chair in a shimmering cloud.

Never mind Wagner. Clearly it was time to break out _The_ _Nutcracker Suite._ 4

\+ + +

It was Friday he had off this week, and Crowley intended to sleep through the whole damned thing. At least until the gig.

Well, until he had to run all the way out to Hastur’s to get his car and then come back to load up his drums and _then_ go to the gig. Why he couldn’t have fixated on the guitar or flute or anything else that would fit on the Tube was a question he very much wanted to ask teenage Crowley.

He did have a guitar that he played from time to time, mostly for writing songs, a shiny red semi-hollow Gretsch. He wondered if Hastur would lend him a small amp and a distortion pedal for a week. That would surprise the hell out of ol' Ezra.

Crowley's focus turned, yet again, to the details of his impending retaliation. It had to be something creative -- something obnoxious -- not harmful and certainly not illegal, but still, a _bit_ mean and a pain to clean up. Perhaps it could involve cling film? Or magazine subscriptions? Tormenting the Nice Neighbour was fast becoming an obsession, and it wasn't like he was going back to sleep for a while anyway, what with the fucking Sugar Plum Fairies shaking the walls at 06:45 in the fucking morning on his day off.

Siobhan, the unparallelled grand master of lying about here and lying about there, had opted to lie on Crowley's chest for once. “Special occasion?” he asked as he scratched under her chin. “You got the memo I'm at my bloody wits' end and needed a visit?”

She got happy enough that she started kneading him through the duvet, and inevitably the claws came out. Crowley flinched and made a face and put up with it. Worth it for the honour of being Chosen for once.

Hold up. That was a new noise.

In his flat.

_What the --_

Sitting up just then was a crime; Siobhan flounced away, broadcasting her silent _hmph_ with a tail twitch. Crowley felt robbed.

But that faint hissing noise was definitely _in his own flat_ and he couldn't identify it. And that was probably bad.

He stalked stealthily to the bedroom door, listening hard over the ‘Danse Arabe.’5 The sound was sort of like the cat's automatic timed food dispenser wotsit, but not. _What the fuck?_

He grabbed some drumsticks and crept out into the main room. Nobody was there. Which was fortunate, because Crowley was naked and groggy and he had no idea what the drumstick plan was supposed to be in the event of a home invasion.

So then what the blazes was -- _“Oh!”_ he exclaimed in surprise, recalling the familiar sound as soon as he recognised its source. Crowley’s wireless laser printer was spitting out pages, forty per minute, and the tray was almost full.

His eyebrows knit in a steep suspicious V as he picked up the warm stack of paper. The first page was an advertisement for an electronic drum kit, a set of pads on a rack for silent practice.6

Crowley snorted. OK, that was admittedly funny. No way in hell would he get one. But it was funny.

After that followed a dozen pages of dry-as-dust official-looking council bumf; doubtless something about noise nuisance blah blah blah was buried in it somewhere. Then some copies of the form to file a complaint, already filled out but not signed. Those were less amusing. Then came several -- what _appeared_ to be pages of -- hang on --

Crowley laughed out loud, astounded, because the rest was a poorly-punctuated smutty novel with _atrocious_ dialogue. At least thirty pages' worth of the worst kind of hetero bodice ripping, and it was still coming.

“Not bad! Really, not bad at all,” he told Siobhan, who was pouting on the edge of the sofa. “He's not as buttoned-up as I thought. We'll have to bring our A game, won't we?”

She ignored him pointedly. The printer ran out of paper, and Crowley refilled it just to watch it finish the job. He _had_ to show this to the rest of the band tonight. They could do a dramatic reading in the green room. If there was one. Which he doubted.

Meanwhile, he was wide awake now. And he felt strangely cheerful despite his exhaustion -- was it cheerful or was it giddy and unhinged? Either way, Crowley sat on his throne and started playing along loudly with the ‘Danse Russe’7 blasting through the wall, that upbeat Russian number with all the jumping about. He gave it a sexy, syncopated half-time feel just for fun. And he defiantly pounded the wall with his fist every other bar, on beat three, just so Ezra would know Crowley was playing _at_ him.

He was miserably tired, and he hated the Nice Neighbour more than ever, but frankly this was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in years.

As he crashed to a grand finale along with the orchestra, Crowley was already buzzing with at least two or three new ideas for his next move in this little game. Wifi and Bluetooth mischief hadn't even occurred to him until this morning. The possibilities were endless…

‘Waltz of the Flowers’8 began, all fanfare and romantic harp glissandos. Crowley started with some cymbal and tom rolls to match, wondering what it would sound like with cowbell once things really got going.

Maybe he should just make some coffee and take a nap later. A long-dormant corner of Crowley’s mind was awake, itching to do some research and draw up a dastardly little plan. It was a change, having something to look forward to.

\+ + +

Aziraphale didn’t wake to drums on Friday night. He woke to footsteps pounding heavily up and down the stairs, over and over, as if Crowley had decided to start a 1am cardio workout with a twenty kilo backpack. 

It was lucky for Aziraphale that he noticed the footsteps, because it saved him from being awakened a few minutes later by a deafening recording of the climax of the _1812 Overture._ 9 The version with real cannons.

 _Bugger._ He had that on his list. He’d been saving it for a special occasion.

Aziraphale hid his head under his pillow resignedly. The earplugs were entirely outmatched, both the ones he'd bought and the ones from Amazon. He'd tried them both by now.

One week down. Fifty-one weeks to go.

\+ + +

  1. ['Spring'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKthRw4KjEg) from _The Four Seasons_ (Op. 8) by Antonio Vivaldi ↩
  2. ['Canon in D'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JvNQLJ1_HQ0) by Johann Pachelbel ↩
  3. ['Flight of the Valkyries'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=175&v=xeRwBiu4wfQ) from _Die Walküre_ by Richard Wagner ↩
  4. ['Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy](https://youtu.be/_pKwCEfGRDU?t=64) from _The Nutcracker Suite_ by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky ↩
  5. ['Danse Arabe'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=13&v=ywMOMedVVZs) from _The Nutcracker Suite_ by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky ↩
  6. ['Danse Chinoise'](https://youtu.be/DIN3ZY-ZjmI?t=3) would have started about now, from _The Nutcracker Suite_ by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky ↩
  7. ['Danse Russe'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKQKFrZ90FM) from _The Nutcracker Suite_ by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, with accompaniment on drums by Vadrum ↩
  8. ['Waltz of the Flowers'](https://youtu.be/bOC36Qjug4U?t=5) from _The Nutcracker Suite_ by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky ↩
  9. [_The Year 1812 Solemn Overture_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=847&v=QUpuAvQQrC0) (Op. 49) by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (warning: the cannons are loud!) ↩



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ['Danse Russe'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKQKFrZ90FM) recording does in fact have a drummer interpreting Tchaikovsky. I wrote the scene before I knew this dude exists, but, like, of COURSE he exists.
> 
> (And while Vadrum rips it up, Crowley played it sexier imho.)
> 
> Obsessing over clever ways to remind one's adversary of one's existence doesn't lead anywhere, nope, not at all.
> 
> We're warming up now, thank you so much for being on board! Sound off in the comments about music you love or music you would play to annoy your worst frenemy, or bad roommates, or anything at all. I'm happy you're here!


	4. Chapter 4

By unspoken and, in fact, unconscious truce, nobody woke anybody up early on Saturday morning.

It was such a relief to have slept for a full night that Crowley forgot to check the spyhole on his way out, which is why he nearly walked right into Ezra as they both stepped onto the landing.

“Oh! I’m so terribly sorry,” said Ezra, habitually polite. He stepped back to make way with a courteous little half-bow, even though bitter resentment was writ plain across his face.

“Yeaaaah, only you’re _not_ sorry, is the thing.” Crowley cocked a hip and grinned broadly.

Ezra arched an eyebrow. “Well, I didn’t say for whom,” he shot back.

Crowley sniggered, pleased to see him rally rather than crumble. It was more interesting meeting an enemy on the field when they had a little fight in them.

Ezra repeated the funny bow and gestured, _after you,_ so Crowley sauntered down the stairs unhurriedly. “Yeah, 's prob'ly for the best,” he acknowledged. “Save your 'sorry' for the one of us who’ll get mistaken for a time traveller today.”

“And what makes you so certain I’m not?” asked Ezra, following a few steps behind.

Crowley snorted. “Nah, seriously, you’re very committed to the role. Well done. Don't break character for me.” This time he bowed low and held the door, ushering Aziraphale out into the muggy summer sunshine and locking up behind them.

“It’s not a role!” Ezra protested. “No more than -- you don't -- it’s -- oh, never mind. Good day.”

He whirled about and marched on his way, head held high, the embodiment of _harumph._ Today he wore an off-white linen suit and a pale blue waistcoat, all tailored to fit perfectly. His bow tie was genuinely, unapologetically, unironically tartan. A man with that kind of money could afford better taste, Crowley thought to himself.

It was the work of a moment to catch up and match Ezra's pace; the long legs were occasionally good for something. Ezra glanced over at him suspiciously several times before he broke. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just walking,” Crowley shrugged innocently. “Seems we're headed in the same direction. That a problem?”

Ezra slowed deliberately. Crowley dawdled so he wouldn't get ahead.

“Don't let me keep you,” said Ezra.

“Oh, 's no trouble. Are you off to a themed garden party, then? Croquet and finger sandwiches?”

“No! I’m just -- just -- buying -- cheese!” Ezra blustered, gesticulating indignantly. “And I don’t require a-a-an _escort.”_

Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets, grinning. “Welllll, what kind of neighbour would I be if I didn’t offer --”

Ezra stopped short. “You could, if you wished, be the kind of neighbour who decides to save us all some _sleep_ and _sanity_ by observing the noise nuisance rules.”

“Awww, what fun would that be?”

“On the contrary, I had great fun last night, sleeping for more than three hours straight,” Ezra retorted brusquely. “Didn't you?”

Crowley stretched his arms and luxuriated in a fake yawn. “Annnnh, I could take it or leave it.”

“Well then.” Ezra clasped his hands in front of him, that oddly supplicating pose that seemed to be a hallmark. “As we can have no further business to discuss, I must -- again -- bid you good day, sir.”

And then the blighter turned on his heel and walked in the other bloody direction.

For some reason Crowley felt like a cat who had toyed with a mouse for a moment too long, watching its plaything escape.

“'S no cheese that way!” Crowley shouted.

“There is,” Ezra called back without looking. “Just have to walk long enough.”

_“Give my regards to Downton Abbey!”_

Which was not Crowley's best work, comedy-wise, but still. He continued on his way, satisfied that he'd put in an honest day’s neighbour-bothering. It really did put him in an irrationally good mood. Duplicitous bow-tied numpties were more fun to fluster than to serve coq au vin.

At the next corner it occurred to him that he was only two blocks from the cheesemonger, and he could get back to the flat a lot more quickly than Ezra could.

Crowley consulted his admittedly overengineered wristwatch. He had a thirty-minute window before he absolutely _had_ to take the car back to the suburbs and then get ready for work.

So he quickened his pace, anticipation mounting. A soft, ripe wedge of Stinking Bishop sounded like just the thing. No way would the Nice Neighbour see this one coming.

+++

“Whose wifi is called 'Vivaldi Sucks Balls'?” asked Anathema, staring at her phone.

“I couldn’t say,” Aziraphale responded drily. “And who are we to assume that he didn't?”

Anathema plugged the aux cable into her phone and left it on top of the record player. She'd chosen Blossom Dearie to kick off happy hour. Her long dark hair was swept up in a chignon, and she wore a smart plum-colored wrap dress with bishop sleeves. On sight, she appeared elegant and relaxed, but her every word and gesture bristled with focus and intentionality.

“This place is nice, now that your things are all set up,” she said, turning to take in the room.

“It's draughty at night and hot during the day. And it's over a sex toy shop.” Aziraphale began slicing the baguette to accompany the cheese board on his little bistro table.

“Don't be judgy-judgy. Are they good neighbours?”

“Oh, I have no objection to their wares,” he assured her. “It's the unhygienic conditions in which they sell them that will keep me from being a regular. As for good neighbours -- I hhh -- er, I had, I had hoped for better. But then I wouldn't expect it to be anything like living in Knightsbridge.”

As he cut a pear into wedges, he debated whether to tell her about his neighbourly...situation. It wasn't as if she could do anything about it -- except for worrying about him like it was her job, which she excelled at, but with the move now behind him he was trying to dispel that dynamic between them.

“Of course,” she said. “It's nothing like Knightsbridge.”

“Not that I'd want to be back there, however peaceful the environs.”

Anathema sat in the wingback reading chair, spine straight, and started digging through her handbag for her sewing kit. “Well, I s'pose it's not the swankiest place. But it's your first step into independence after you-know-who, and there will be many more to follow. Maybe your next apartment will have room for your whole library.”

Aziraphale grimaced for a fraction of a moment, unable to keep himself from wondering if she would ever understand, _at all,_ what it meant to have money. And not to. They were very close, but there would always be certain gaps in their experience.

“In the meantime,” she went on, “no more confrontations, no more passive aggressive bullshit, no more negativity or mockery. You finally get just what the doctor ordered: some peace and quiet and solitude.”

Aziraphale looked up at the wallpaper just over her head. On the wall he shared with Crowley.

“Right,” said Aziraphale.

“Right.”

All in all, there was a lot on his mind that he wasn’t telling her at the moment. He kept his attention on the knife and the fruit. “But enough about me; let's talk about you. When does the family begin arriving?”

They chatted about wedding plans and picked at the cheese board for some time, and as soon as the grapes were gone Anathema washed her hands and laid out the coat. In Aziraphale's mind it sometimes had capital letters: The Coat. He'd found it in an Oxfam shop a few weeks before, and it was the first new purchase he'd brought to Anathema since -- the Breakup.

(Aziraphale's train of thought still lurched and hesitated, just there, just before that other recently capitalised word.)

He had forgotten to bring out the full-length mirror for the fitting. Anathema gave him a look that said she knew what he was up to, hiding it in the wardrobe, but she refrained from commenting as they set it up in a corner. When Aziraphale saw himself in it, the dark circles under his eyes were rather shocking.

But when he slipped into the vintage knee-length coat, he was very happy they'd wrestled the heavy mirror out. It fitted like a dream now that the waist and shoulders had been taken in and the sleeves hemmed. He actually quite enjoyed looking at himself in it.

“You know, I think it's about good to go,” Anathema announced with a serious expression. “I can attach the buttons and sew the lining back in this week, and you should be all set.”

Aziraphale examined the buttonholes she'd restitched by hand. “Your detail work is looking so precise now. This is far better than when you started.”

“Thanks! Buttonholes are a bitch.” She put several pins between her clamped lips for safekeeping, and managed to continue speaking through them anyway. “Everyone expected me to skip this part. But that's exactly why I couldn't. It’s worth all of Paolo’s grouching to really learn how to do this right.” She removed the pins one by one, marking places of import that she understood and Aziraphale did not. “Gotta study up, gotta _earn_ it, or there's no point inheriting it. I'd always feel like a fraud.” She stepped back to examine her work. On consideration, she moved the pin for the bottom button a millimeter lower and smoothed the front of the coat.

Aziraphale looked in the mirror and touched the wide lapels reverently. The old-fashioned ivory frock coat was light enough for all seasons, but heavy enough to be of substance, and it was very distinctive in appearance. Certainly nothing like anybody else was wearing. But it felt right to him.

“This is _really_ you,” Anathema said, speaking his thought. “Like, this could be your brand almost. This and the bow tie. Like, it's -- smashing! Is it? That never sounds right when I say it.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Close enough.”

He'd met Anathema the same week she moved to London. She had come to apprentice with a master tailor, and to spend a few years working in several different positions at a boutique fashion house. Anathema had very little respect for designers who couldn't do every part of the work themselves. She didn't plan on being one.

It just so happened that she preferred to pursue these ends half a world away from her family -- or rather, from the heavy expectations that hung over the surname _Device._ In New York and L.A., too many people recognised her; in London she had relative anonymity, and after four years she'd grown very attached to the city. And quite a few people in it. Her fiancé, for example.

Anathema and Aziraphale had initially bonded over their passion for the minutiae of vintage fashion. They'd met at a sparsely attended museum event (The Evolution of Textiles, part III: the 19th Century) and their shared enthusiasm spilled over for hours, into dinner and drinks and ranting fervently about pleats in front of a gelateria at midnight.

Aziraphale had invited her to a fitting the next day, because she simply _had_ to meet Paolo, the tailor who restored and fitted his charity shop finds. And then he kept inviting her, and she kept turning up. More and more often the fittings were followed by wine, and soon it was just the wine, and then wine and brunch and shopping, and then wine and a weekend in Scotland learning about tartans.

Scotland, Aziraphale mused, there was a thought. _They_ knew how to raise a ruckus. He made a mental note to add bagpipes to the rapidly growing Neighbour-Vexing List. Oh! And lutefisk, in return for the cheese currently triple-wrapped in his refrigerator; he'd meant to write that down too -- lutefisk had to be available somewhere, didn't it? How expensive might it be? Surely it could be found at IKEA? Wait, no, that was an absurd distance to travel for a prank --

“Almost forgot, I have one more thing for you!” Anathema remembered as she packed up her pins and zipped the coat back into its garment bag. “And then we can get on with the happy part of happy hour.”

She gave Aziraphale a significant look, and he went to the kitchenette for the corkscrew. Or rather, turned to the kitchenette, it was such a short distance. Meanwhile she set a flat black gift box on the table.

Aziraphale eyed the present as he uncorked the Beaujolais and poured out for the two of them. “I might have a guess, from the shape of that box,” he said, smiling.

“Pretend to be surprised, then.”

Aziraphale handed her a glass and sat down in the little folding bistro chair to open the package. It was a new bow tie, of course -- a lightweight brocade, pale blue shot through with accents of gold.

“I timed myself. I can make them in seven minutes now,” boasted Anathema. “But this one is special; I picked out the fabric just for you. If you like it, I hope you'll...y'know, for the wedding, maybe?”

Aziraphale was already changing it for the one he was wearing. “Oh, it isn’t even a question! Of course I will. This is just _lovely,_ thank you, my dear. Sewing wedding wear all week, are you?”

“The list is long. But I'm having fun.” She smiled, and from her handbag she discreetly produced her bullet journal so she could cross off two items for her Saturday. Aziraphale shook his head at her fondly.

“And what sort of shape is the wedding dress in?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don't know. That one I keep putting off,” she grumbled, letting her posture slip just a little. “Is that bad? I like working on other people's things more. But I need to finish it, I _neeeeed_ to. The family will all be there, and the press might be snooping...”

“You could always turn up in the nude, with a veil,” he suggested.

“Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind.” She raised her glass in salute.

“Well, once they see Newt in an ascot, everyone will be so shocked they won't even notice you.”

“Still think you'd look fantastic in a morning suit,” Anathema said offhandedly, popping an olive in her mouth.

Aziraphale couldn't help feeling singed by that thought, just a little, like running a finger through a candle flame. He had no cause to feel hurt, of course. It was by his own request that he had stepped back from the actual wedding party. Anathema had invited him, but he'd requested a different role after the -- Breakup. He hadn't felt comfortable standing up in front of everyone. Yet, petty though it was to regret that decision for sartorial reasons, he was genuinely sad to forego his chance -- perhaps his one and only chance, assuming he never married -- to try his hand at morning dress.

He sipped his wine and swallowed a melancholy sigh. She would have noticed and asked him what was wrong. “I'll keep that in mind in case I'm invited to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot next year,” he said.

“So have you thought about what I said?” she asked with a mischievous air.

“Botheration.” He rolled his eyes. “Ask me again after our second glass.”

“Oh, I will,” she assured him. “I will be obnoxious about it until you give me an answer. Now that you're all settled in, you could use a distraction.”

Aziraphale played it a touch coy to tease her. “Well at the moment, I'm fully sober, so the answer is absolutely not.”

“That sounds promising!” She grinned at him expectantly. “You're hedging.”

“I'm not saying my mind will change.”

“I hold out hope! Hurry up. Let's get to that second glass.”

Aziraphale considered his wine thoughtfully. “You know, I'm not sure whether I'm more worried about going on this date or disappointing you if I don't.”

“You can't disappoint me. But you _can_ put this off forever, and I'm here to not let you.”

“You may be right about that.” Aziraphale looked around at the creaky little studio. The single bed. “It's not as if I can bring anybody back here, though, can I?”

Anathema made a face. “Who said anything about bringing anybody home? I'm talking about coffee!”

“So you assume, going in, that I'll get nowhere? Thanks very much for that,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “If you're not prepared to consider those sorts of... _eventualities,_ you should get out of the matchmaking business for all your poor, unsuspecting, middle-aged gay friends.”

“I don’t have any straight friends! And I'm not matchmaking! I just want you to get out there again with someone. Anyone. And you won't do the apps with me, so --”

“Tell me the truth,” he chuckled, not unkindly. “Was this on your list today?”

She pouted, sitting up straight enough to balance a houseplant on her head, and took a defiant sip _at_ him. “No. Maybe.”

“Yes,” he appended. Her nostrils flared with frustration, and he laughed.

“But you _told_ me to, a few months ago,” she reminded him. “Like, a week after you moved out. I'm just following instructions.”

“Did I? Hmm. And I expect you put it in your diary back then, didn't you.” He sipped the wine. It was very good. Anathema cared about quality.

She set her glass down and pulled out the journal. “So can I cross it off or not? Do I get an answer?”

Aziraphale took a moment to think, nodding along to the piano trio in the background. “I'm well over Gabriel, and have been since the day I packed my things. But I'm also nowhere near over the damage he left in his wake. ...Admittedly, the odds are very high that this... _encounter_ would be no more than an uneventful, awkward conversation. But if it were to go badly, I might -- not -- take it so well. And even worse, if it were to...be interesting, to _go_ somewhere...I don’t think I'm in any kind of condition for that. Not yet.”

She watched him carefully over her glasses. “That's fair. You don't have to be all healed up overnight.”

“I just don’t understand how -- well, you know. You’ve heard it all before.” He rolled his eyes at himself and made a gesture she understood. “You've endured so much of the post-mortem already, and it's past time to move on.”

“But you just told me you're not ready to go on a date, which means you're not ready to move on.” Anathema leaned forward, listening earnestly. “You let me cry on your shoulder for, like, eight months when Tia was done with the long distance thing. Tell me again, whatever it is. Just so it’s not in you anymore.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and reluctantly returned to the familiar well of feelings. Lifted the lid. Turned the crank. This whole process was so long, so awfully long, and there didn't seem to be any shortcut through it. With tightly wound shoulders and an unsteadied voice, he opened the Conversation again.

“It's -- it's infuriating that for Gabriel, this was so -- it meant so _little._ That it was so unimportant -- that he is......he's not looking back. Not a glance at all these years of history. Not even to wonder what he could have done better, not to learn any lessons, not...” Aziraphale swallowed uncomfortably. “Not for the good times, not to check on how I'm doing, not for anything. He’s carrying on like it never happened. Meanwhile my entire life, my living situation, my financial situation are all defined by his absence. So for me, not a day goes by that I don’t spend an hour or two picking away at…at all of it. What everything meant, why I stayed so long, why he -- apparently -- suffered my presence well after he knew he was done...”

A long moment passed before Anathema spoke. She was very good at listening. “Yeah, but you want to come out of this a better person. Stronger. So you're sifting through it all instead of just walking away. You're looking back because you can’t bear to go through all that and not learn something. _He's_ not looking back because he's a pea-brained, selfish, shallow, egotistical American ass boil.”

Anathema was also very good at insults. And she had never liked Gabriel.

Aziraphale absentmindedly worried the hem of his waistcoat between his fingers. “I don't know what the lesson is, though. Save, perhaps, that I should avoid financial entanglements with romantic partners. And employ higher standards when it comes to men.”

“Maybe the lesson is to not let horrible people walk all over you.”

The Rude Neighbour immediately came to mind. “That's fair,” Aziraphale nodded. “Perhaps I am improving on that front. A bit.”

“But it's frustrating that he doesn't give a shit what he did wrong,” Anathema supplied.

“Exactly. I don’t think he can even imagine what he's doing wrong; if he can, he certainly doesn't care.” He knew she was talking about the Ex, but he still found himself looking over at that spot on the wall, as if he could see right through it to the drum set. Some sentiments had more than one application. “So while I’m over here, fretting over every argument I could make, every action I could take, he’s just _coasting along_ and -- I mean, I don’t even _want_ anything from him, except for him to understand for one moment how I feel about -- a-a-about --” He threw his hands up with a sigh. “Yes. It's familiar ground. We’ve been here before.”

“That's all right,” said Anathema, and she meant it. She finished her first glass and folded her feet up beneath her on the chair -- relaxing just a little of her iron grip on herself, her schedule, her life. “Mi abuela says that after relationships, there’s forgetters and there’s regretters. Gabriel’s a forgetter.”

Aziraphale reached to pour her another. “That sounds nice.”

“Regretters carry all that heartache, true, and the lessons that come with it. But forgetters _never grow._ Can you imagine Gabriel being a different person in ten years? A self-aware person?”

Aziraphale snorted at the thought. “Good Lord, no.” It was funnier than it should have been.

“Yeah.” She laughed a little too. “Sorry you’re stuck regretting, but it’s better than forgetting.”

“Yes, but --” his face fell. “Being so forgettable. There's the rub.”

“What, you want him tortured over you, begging to have you back?” she asked.

“Ugh! Not at _all,”_ said Aziraphale. “That would be a complete nightmare.”

“Then let him forget! _You_ are not forgettable. _He_ is a Tinker Bell!” She gesticulated passionately with her wine, doubtless the first of many dangerous sloshes this evening. Aziraphale tapped the table and she remembered to put her glass down. Then she pounced on the Stilton and crackers as if they’d wronged her.

“Gabriel is a -- a Tinker Bell?” he asked.

“Totally!” she said gleefully. “In the stories, Barrie says she's so small she only has room for one feeling at a time.”

Aziraphale huffed in bemused surprise. “I suppose he is a Tinker Bell, then.”

“Which is fine, but you, _you_ need someone with a little more range than that.” She poked at him with a piece of cheese.

“But aren't we all Tinker Bells sometimes?”

She made a face. “Oh, yeah, but has he ever not been that way? Has he had one complicated feeling, ever? Have you seen him, like, agonised or torn?”

“Torn!” Aziraphale laughed in earnest. “I lived with him for eight years, and I genuinely cannot imagine that.”

“There you have it.” She took up her wine glass again, triumphantly. “Maybe you're a regretter, but it's better than being a bor -- bet -- a forgetter. Too many B’s, I think I made a new tongue twister.”

“Was that on your list too?”

She stuck out a bare foot and shoved his knee. “Don't be mean. The only thing left on my list tonight is drinking distilled liquids and going out dancing, before I'm swamped with relatives. I've been doing sixteen hour days till my eyes cross. Time for some loud and rhythmic self-care. You in?”

Aziraphale glanced at the wall-spot again. “I would really love to -- I have missed dancing -- but I can’t tell you how desperate I am to catch up on sleep.”

“Come onnn, it's been forever!” she complained. Aziraphale's face betrayed his regret and his likely answer, so Anathema kindly spared him having to say it. “OK, OK, fine. I was hoping, but I get it. Rain check. But we could do dinner, right? You have to eat.”

He hesitated, and he hated that he acquiesced as soon as she added, “My treat!”

But that was the way of the world, and they both knew it. She could treat him to dinner and he couldn't treat her. Not any more. But she _would_ treat him, without hesitation, and she would also have reprimanded him for even thinking twice about it. She was a protective and generous friend, and she had proven herself time and again.

“To you, my dear,” said Aziraphale, raising his glass. “To your wild night out and your wedding dress and your lists -- and to escaping them sometimes -- and to a long and happy marriage.”

He privately resolved that once the wedding was over, once she was back from her honeymoon and her trip home to California, he would find the strength to return to telling her absolutely everything, just as he always had. He would take her out dancing. He would be himself again, soon.

Talk turned back to the dress and the rehearsal dinner menu and her mothers' imminent arrival. They finished the wine, and then they walked to a Cantonese restaurant that had inspired hunger pangs every time Aziraphale walked by it. 

And despite his bone-deep weariness, he felt happier than he had in a very long time.

The two of them stayed out until well after nine, by which time Aziraphale was yawning so much that Anathema dragged him from the restaurant back to his front door. They parted with a long hug, and he hoped she knew how thankful he truly was.

As she marched away intently to check ‘drink things / dance things’ off her list, or whatever it was she had written down for tonight, he paused outside the door, fidgeting with the keys in his pocket. Among them he could feel the tiny slip of paper he’d put there, the one his fortune cookie had offered up to him after his fish balls, char siu, and red bean soup.

The fortune read: _If you make an effort to be kind, you will be rewarded._

It had been a very long week, and he was very tired. And he knew it was foolish to hope for a change. 

But Aziraphale believed in nothing if not the power of kindness. So he rallied his resources and struck out down the street for one last neighbourhood errand before bed, more out of a dogged sense of duty than any real optimism. Though who could say? This morning’s little palaver had seemed less acrimonious than their previous encounters.

As a plan for the rest of the evening solidified in his mind, the spring began to return to his step. Aziraphale knew he had agency over only one variable in this situation: himself. And he refused to let the Rude Neighbour -- or noise, or fatigue, or anything else -- drive him to unkindness.

The Tesco Metro wasn’t far. He would be home for the night in just a few minutes more. He kept humming snatches of Vivaldi despite himself. ‘Spring’, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Letting my characters sit and have feelings for a while. Feelings are important. But fear not, more mayhem is coming soon, including another update tomorrow.
> 
> (I can't wait to get to the part, you'll know the one, omg omg omg)
> 
> Love to you, and thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in quick succession! If you haven't read about cheese yet, go back a chapter!
> 
> Happy love day, featuring love of all kinds, including for cheese. I love you, reader.

“Maybe I should quit the band.”

Anathema threw a peanut at Crowley's nose. “Do it then. You've been saying that for years.”

“If you get your nuts in my Scotch, you're getting me another one.”

“I'm getting you another one anyway. You're a sourpuss tonight.”

“Well, _yeah,_ because of -- fuckin' -- _tcch_ \--” Crowley leaned on the bar with one elbow and waved his drink at the rest of the world.

“Fuckin' everything?”

“Fuckin' everything, yeah, is my point.”

“You are such a drama queen, Anthony.” Anathema hopped up on a barstool, so she was closer to his height, and sipped her gin and tonic. “Two minutes after you get out there you'll be grinning like an idiot, and you know it.”

“That's slander. Libel. One of those.” Crowley sniffed and surveyed the dance floor, which was still mostly empty. It was only half past eleven. Anathema had dragged him to the pub first and forced him to down a plate of bangers and mash while she watched, since he hadn't eaten yet. The pit stop conveniently allowed her to leave her things with Erik, in the tiny back office, before Crowley ushered her around the corner and downstairs to their Soho club of choice, The Last Unicorn.

“See anybody interesting?” Anathema asked him, waggling her eyebrows.

Crowley curled his lip in exasperation. “What, this year? Naah.”

“Shame.”

“Besides, 's not about me. 'S your hen night.”

“Not officially.”

“Pre-hen night.”

“It's called a bachelorette party, and this isn’t it, and you're not invited. Last week _you_ asked _me_ when we were going out again, remember? I just did the scheduling.”

“Wait, you're havin' a real hen night? Why'm I not invited?”

“Because I'll have four other friends there, and my cousins. Which means you would bail. You're, like, allergic to all my friends.”

“I'm not allergic; I'm on a restrictive diet. I only go out with people I enjoy.”

“End result's the same. They don't think you exist.” Anathema glanced over his shoulder and then pointed subtly down the bar, behind him. “How 'bout that guy? He's definitely looking at your ass.”

_“Arse.”_

“Gluteus maximus. He's into it.”

Just to spite her, Crowley made a _much_ too obvious turn to stare over his shoulder at the kid -- Jesus, did they have to keep manufacturing the new ones so young? -- and turned back again.

“Go talk to him!” Anathema prompted.

“What the fuck for?”

“You never know! It could be true love.”

“Wouldn’t know. Can't remember how love goes exactly. Is that the thing with the bows 'n arrows 'n chubby little angel bums?”

“Anthonyyyy!” she whined.

 _“Pffft.”_ He blew a stray lock of hair out of his face irritably, and then leaned back against the bar to put it all up in a topknot since the dancing was imminent anyway. She was right, of course; the midnight DJ was fantastic here on Saturdays, and Crowley was going to enjoy the everloving shit out of himself once they got going. Time to work out all that pent-up sleep-deprived simmering aggression just under his skin. And maybe dream up some new tricks for the next round of Provoke Thy Neighbour. (Disco. Disco could be good.)

“Don't you even wanna try?” Anathema asked. “Just to prove you can? Just for a lark?”

“Don't say 'just for a lark,'” he told her testily, “it sounds weird in American. And -- fucksake -- I know this'll sound old 'n jaded to you, because you're, like, fourteen 'n you're still all romantic. But that whole -- _thing,_ the runaround or whatever, it gets less exciting over time. You don't have to wingwoman me. I’m not on the prowl.”

She pouted at him and pushed her glasses up her nose.

“I mean it! I'm not missing out or anything,” he said. “I have a cat. So quit it.”

“I don't care if you're missing out or not. _You_ need to get laid,” Anathema announced with alcohol-inspired certainty.

“Wha -- the bloody cheek!” It was Crowley's turn to throw a peanut. It hit her in the forehead and plopped straight into her drink. “Bullseye.”

She either didn't notice or didn't care. “No, you absolutely do,” she insisted.

He shook his head at her and downed the rest of his whisky in one go. “Look, just because you always make your sex drive _my_ business doesn't mean mine is yours. I'll give you advice about Newt's cock all day, but you don't exactly have the same level of expertise on offer.”

“I _am,_ however, an Anthony Crowley expert, and _you,_ sir, are moody and mean when you're horny.”

 _“Ffffhh!_ I'm not in -- in -- in _heat,_ I jus’ haven't been sleeping! I am over-fucking-tired!” he griped, gesticulating to drive the point home. “Is getting me laid in your journal thingy? On your little to-do list for today? Or does it just say 'make Crowley tetchy after work'? Never mind, I don't want to know.”

She shook her head and laughed. “You sound just like Aziraphale.”

“Gesundheit. Is that wotsisname?”

“It is.”

“Yeah, well, we're not revisiting that discussion either.”

Anathema set down her empty glass and threw up her hands. “I didn't say anything!”

Crowley gestured at the barman to get Anathema a peanut-free refill. “I don't think _he_ exists. If Gesundheit and I ever wind up in the same room, it'll be despite you, not because of.”

She snorted. “It took me a _whole year_ and some strategic lies of omission to trap you into meeting Newt. But I got it done.”

“Yeah, 'n you saw how that went.”

“Well, he's my fiancé, and I don't care what you think.”

“Same same, bike girl. 'Cept for the fiancé part.” Just to make sure she wasn't getting the wrong idea from his snappish tone, he put an arm around her and crushed her in a warm side hug. He couldn't think of anyone besides Nat that he wanted to go out with anymore. What was the point? She _got_ him. She could take his bullshit without flinching and dish it back just as boldly. She was safe.

Not to mention nobody else was around. Crowley had no more work friends, no more uni friends, no more miscellaneous friends, and apparently not even an Erik anymore. The folks in the band -- they’d all been inseparable back in the day, but now everyone else had an actual life, which left them no time for him. As they all drifted into middle age it was mostly gigs and rehearsals and gear and bloody Doodle polls to schedule so much as a phone call.

And now Nat was getting married too, and probably moving home eventually, and --

“You're ruminating,” said Anathema, pinching his ribs. “Spit it out.”

“...Pulsifer's a right sod for stealin' you.”

“Nobody steals me. ‘Specially not Newt. I do my own thing.”

Crowley smiled at the reprimand and smooched her on the temple. “Right, forgive me, highness. Not meanin’ to be paternalistic. Just a mite protective.” He squeezed her hard and then returned to his usual sulky barslouch, hands in his pockets.

She gave him a sceptical look. “Of me or of you?”

“Oh, definitely of me. I'm down to you 'n Siobhan, and she never texts back. Fuck'm I s'posed to do without you?”

“Thought you didn’t need to meet anybody?” She shoved his shoulder fondly. He glowered. “I'm not going anywhere. Newt has D&D. Besides, he hates to go out at night, and I _need_ to. Like, to function as a human.”

Crowley gave an exaggerated sigh. “I think you underestimate how seductive the siren song of Netflix ‘n a cosy couch gets, once you breeze by thirty.”

“Two years left, then. And after that you can come watch Netflix at my place.”

 _Not if it's in California,_ Crowley tried not to think, but thought anyway.

The barman finally got around to their drinks. Crowley raised his glass to her, but he was feeling a little melancholy now that he was one whisky deep. And she could tell. She could always tell. She paid close attention. As a friend, Anathema was more a focused beam of intensity than a barrel of laughs. She did everything like she was being marked out of ten, even drinking and dancing. Even friendship.

Although, to be fair, that was probably the reason they were still friends. She wrote him down in her little book every week, and because she did, she remembered to call him or text him or drag him away from the flat and the cat. Nobody else did. 

Crowley never took initiative like that; seemed like it was just asking for drama. And disappointment. Which made it unlikely he'd make a new friend anytime soon. Not that he was itching to -- he knew he definitely should, in the same abstract way he knew he _should_ clean the oven and he _should_ be saving more for retirement. But that whole category of _shoulds,_ shrouded in a nagging sense of obligation to his future self, had never motivated him much.

He wasn't all that invested in doing right by his current self, either. But it wasn't like it really mattered as long it didn't affect anyone else's life. And it didn't.

 _Probably best for everybody,_ Crowley's brain whispered to him. 

He made a face at it for that, but he wasn't sure he could muster a strong rebuttal.

“What just happened?” asked Anathema. “In your head?”

Crowley turned his back to the bar and stared vacantly across the room filling up with strangers. After a moment he shrugged.

“Thinkin' how much I like you, mainly,” he said candidly. “And how I hope you'll keep dragging me out, kicking 'n screaming, even after your big floofy party thingy. Don't see much reason to come here on my own.”

Anathema cocked her head. “Never gonna meet any cute boys sitting at home. Or sticking to me like a starfish.”

“I mean, I can’t understand why...” he hesitated, and then looked at his friend, and then decided he'd have more fun dancing tonight if he coughed up this dark little hairball of a feeling and left it at the bar.

“I don't know how it makes sense to bother with all that anymore,” he said. “Dating 'n such. Long term, I mean. I don't know that I'm -- like -- at this point I can't really see how I'm a net gain for anybody else. So maybe ‘s best to just...yeah. Save everyone a lot of trouble.”

“Wow.” Her eyebrows made that funny little W, the one they hardly ever did. _“That's_ a thing you just said. C’mere, you,” Anathema ordered him, pulling him over for a more serious hug than before. Crowley gave her an eyeroll, which she couldn't see through the dark glasses, but he didn't resist.

“You don't want to bother with it because you're scared,” she said into his shoulder, “and that's allowed.”

“Fuck off, Sigmund.”

“It's not psychoanalysis. It's your aura.”

“Fuck off, fashion witch.” He pulled away and took a generous hit of whisky.

She drew herself up, trying to look stern, though Crowley observed with amusement that her perfect posture was starting to slip. “But the thing is, Anthony -- it's -- the _thing_ is, is, I _know_ you don't like being totally alone. And your hormones _definitely_ don't like it. You could at least just find a friend with benefits. Or pull somebody, or have a wild weekend fling.”

He grinned at her and crossed his arms. “Is it your imminent nuptials that's got you nosier than usual about my sex life?”

“No! I'm just saying it's not on you to, like, improve somebody's life.” She grabbed his shoulder earnestly, speaking with a passion she usually saved for the dance floor. “You don’t have to come with perks. You don’t have to turn up with a dowry of goats. You can just be a fuckin’ _person._ Just...y'know, hang out. Be nice. If you like ‘em, give ‘em the eyebrow. If you don’t, say no thanks. Then go home. That’s it.”

Crowley wasn't sure what his face was doing in response to all that, but he was grateful for the sunglasses. He decided to put away the rest of his whisky, faster than it deserved.

“Yeaaaah,” he drawled. “Not in the mood, don't feel like it, can't make me.”

“Well do _something_ to get out of this funk!”

“Like go out dancing with you? I am!”

“Like have an orgasm once in a while!” she shouted enthusiastically, waving her arms wide. Several bystanders’ heads turned in her direction. “They're super healthy! Tons of dopamine.”

Crowley snorted. “No shortage of sex toys in Soho. I promise I'm well supplied.”

“Sex toys can't buy you drinks! Or laugh at your stupid jokes or tell you when you have great hair!”

He laughed. “And _none_ of those things are what my inflated ego needs right now! I'm already an irredeemable arsehole.” Crowley slammed his empty glass down on the bar and offered her his hand. “Besides, all that stuff’s your job. If I’m not getting enough praise ‘n flattery, it’s because you're a shitty friend.”

 _“You're_ a shitty friend,” she echoed. She hopped down, relaxed at last, her limbs loose and fluid as the witching hour approached. She started pulling him towards the pounding speakers and the growing throng on the dance floor.

“Did you hydrate?” he yelled over the music.

“Yup! And I ate _so_ much Lo Mein. Come be loud and look stupid with me.”

“Is that how you wrote it down in your magic book?”

Still leading him by the hand, she looked back and grinned. “I wrote 'Tell Anthony to Get Fucked'. And I did!”

“Cross it off, then. No more list left, right?”

Anathema threw her hands up over her head. “Right!” she shouted jubilantly, and she began to sway.

That was mission accomplished for tonight. Anytime Crowley could tempt her away from the tyranny of the little brown book, he felt he was at least _beginning_ to be useful to her. 

She had a lot of other friends, he knew, most of whom he'd never met. He'd gone out of his way not to. But whenever Anathema needed some freedom, when she needed an escape, she always called Crowley. 

And he had promised himself that he'd always be there. Not quite the designated driver, at least not usually, but -- the designated club companion. Redundant wingman. Sozzled 3am confidante. Unofficial deadbeat big brother. Anathema craved abandon and anonymity and un-self-consciousness like medicine, but she was wise enough to find it here, with a grouchy old gay sidekick who made her drink water and saw her home safe.

It would take him a lot longer to find his own rhythm, but he usually did. He was a terrible dancer. When he was out with Anathema, he didn't care. It didn't matter if he looked ridiculous. He had nobody to impress.

Crowley pulled out a new pair of earplugs for himself before he got going. Couldn't be too careful with the ears. 

+++

> _Find me and follow me through corridors, refectories and files  
> _ _You must follow, leave this academic factory  
> _ _You'll find me in the matinée, the dark of the matinée  
> _ _It's better in the matinée, the dark of the matinée is mine, yes, it's miiiine...._ 1

Aziraphale was deeply disoriented by his inaugural Saturday night (well, Sunday morning) wake-up call in the new flat -- because for the first time ever it was, frankly, a hot mess. The wail of uninhibited singing came first, followed by bangs and booms so chaotic that he wondered groggily whether the bin lorry was out the back again.

He sat straight up in bed, wondering what to make of it. Crowley's playing displeased Aziraphale in a number of ways, but it had never been less than masterful before. This sounded like random flailing. At length he heard a distinct high-volume _“Fuck!”_ and the crash of a cymbal tipping over onto the floor. Erratic footsteps staggered across the room and more muffled cursing ensued.

Aziraphale couldn't help smiling and shaking his head as he switched on the light and began to get dressed. The grandmother clock told him it was five minutes past three. At six minutes past, the drum practice began in earnest, with a proper groove, but it sounded heavy and imprecise and inexpert. Half-hearted too, seeing as Crowley (presumably it was Crowley) kept giving up after a verse or two, like they'd lost interest, and then changing songs.

Well. Whatever was happening, the next few minutes promised to be interesting.

Aziraphale straightened his bow tie, checked his hair in the tall mirror set up just hours before, and headed out to knock on his neighbour's door.

A fortunate side effect of the fitful stops and starts in the music was that Crowley heard the knocking right away. On the first night of their acquaintance, it had taken several minutes to get their attention. Aziraphale stood up straight and braced himself not to be intimidated, come what may.

The locks snapped, the door cracked open, four long fingers curled around the edge of it -- and then, with a few inarticulate exclamations, the door slammed shut again.

“...C-Crowley?” called Aziraphale.

“Aissshhffffyeahhnnjjjssta sssecond,” they said, and then they reappeared, fixing their sunglasses in place.

Aziraphale gaped and stepped back. They sashayed out onto the landing and shut the door behind them right away, as if they didn't want anyone to see what was inside. But there was plenty to see out here.

“Ezzzraaaaa!” they intoned with a sinful grin. “'Ssss you.”

Crowley was resplendently drunk. Their long limbs splayed weightlessly in all directions like kraken tentacles. The dreamy aquatic effect was underscored by their long hair loose in coppery ringlets, still slightly damp from bathing, and the way their drifting hips and torso suggested that their vertebrae had been sent to the cleaner's.

But most striking was the black silk kimono they wore, _wide open,_ for heaven’s sake. It slipped with their every unconscious undulation over an emerald green negligee that left little to speculation. The sleeves draped to the floor, spreading like dark wings as Crowley raised their elegant arms overhead to grip the doorframe for balance.

Aziraphale was agog and amused and _definitely_ blushing, as this was quite a lot more leg and collarbone than he’d been prepared to take in. Er, filter out. Judging from Crowley's expression, they were enjoying the hell out of whatever discomfort they could cause him.

Everything he’d planned to say sounded silly now. Especially since the odds that Crowley would remember any of it seemed slim. Perhaps another time would be --

“Wossis?” Crowley asked, eyebrows jumping with disarmingly genuine curiosity.

Aziraphale sighed and shook his head, holding out the peace offering he hoped would be welcome. “I heard you were up, and I brought some -- ah -- well, these are for you.”

Crowley pursed their lips and leaned forward precariously to examine the plate and its contents from _very_ close up. Aziraphale wondered how their eyesight was. And just how drunk they were. Their little snake tattoo was back, which was odd -- it had been missing, the last two times they'd encountered one another. Did they draw that on when they felt like it? Or cover it up when they didn't?

“Mmf!” Crowley grunted, swaying in unsteady surprise when tresses of wet hair slid off their shoulder and fell into their face. 

“...They’re lemon blueberry muffins,” Aziraphale explained. “Gluten-free, since I didn't know your, ah, preferences.”

“Ohhhh! Djjyou _make_ tha'?” Their mouth hung open.

He nodded. “I did. For you.”

Crowley bent even closer to the muffins, transfixed, and poked one slightly to make them all perfectly centered on the plate. Then they broke off a bite-size piece with their fingers, but instead of eating it, they crushed it into bits and watched them fall. “'Ssssaa, 's a decent crumb you did there. Ngk.”

“I -- thank you?” said Aziraphale. “Do you -- want them?”

Crowley stood up suddenly, as if remembering something. “Oh, no, naaaah,” they said, with an expressive flourish of their graceful hands. “Don' do sweets really.”

“Oh. You're sure?”

His neighbour made a throaty sound which, despite its lack of vowels, communicated their indifference perfectly.

“Oh. I-I-I see.” Aziraphale blinked, feeling a little ridiculous. 

As if on a delayed reaction, Crowley shook their head vigorously. Silk rippled distractingly all over their lithe frame. “Mm bitter, me,” they said, as if that explained everything.

Aziraphale groaned faintly. That his neighbour had offered no hint of “thank you” or “sorry” or “appreciate the thought” indicated a lack of manners hitherto unimaginable. And being intoxicated was no excuse; when Aziraphale was intoxicated, all he _did_ was say thank yous and sorries.

He tried very hard not to calculate the exact number of minutes of sleep he’d sacrificed for this ill-fated baking project.

Crowley crossed their arms and leaned against the doorframe. “S'what can I do for you, Ezzzra?”

“Besides the obvious?” asked Aziraphale, raising an eyebrow.

“Yyyyeah, that.”

With a deep breath, Aziraphale summoned all his reserves of kindness and sincerity. He smiled. “Do you know, Crowley, I'd love to stop all this fighting.”

“Ha! Pffff!” They waved his words away like fruit flies. “Fighting? Who's fighting? _We're_ not ffffighting. I e'en boughtchyou mmpresent. Before. 'Nlllook, you, you got me mmpresent too!”

“...So you want it then?”

“Ha! No, don't _want_ it, but look, theressss -- theretis!” They pointed at the muffins and grinned even wider, oddly delighted.

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, having no idea what else there was to say.

“Indeed,” Crowley mimicked in a comically deep voice, screwing their face up with fake bluster. This cracked them up, and they laughed till they snorted loudly.

“If we’re not fighting, then what are we doing?” asked Aziraphale.

Crowley flung an arm over their head dramatically, posing for an imaginary figure drawing class. They were distractingly stunning, in that specific way that made Aziraphale feel invisible. And they evidently knew it, even while sauced.

“Musss be some sortaaaa protracted -- immmersive -- improvisatory -- competish, mm, competitive -- performance art 'xperience? ...'Fy'raskin' me.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale chuckled incredulously. It was a surprisingly adept string of words for someone so far gone.

“Yyyyyup.” They popped the P loudly.

“That's funny.” Aziraphale cocked his head. “I'd have sworn it was a hidden camera sleep deprivation study.”

Crowley scrunched up their nose in reluctant acknowledgement. “Why not both?”

Feeling the audience drawing to a close, Aziraphale took one more run at honesty. “Crowley, I'm asking you, in all seriousness: what can I do for you? How can we make this work, what is it that you want?”

With a haughty hair toss, the Rude Neighbour looked him up and down and scoffed.

“From _you?_ Nothing.”

Ezra flinched.

“There’s no -- no _www-_ \-- no chance we can compromise, then? At all?” He was trying and failing to keep the pleading note from his voice.

“I mean --” they stuck out their tongue lewdly, writhing from top to bottom like a cobra. “Never say never, but -- _pfffft!”_ They leaned in very close to him, nose to nose, smiling like a shark. “Why would I stop now? We’re having ssssuch _fffun.”_

“Are we?” Aziraphale wondered warily into black mirrored lenses.

They straightened up and looked away to show off their long neck, their regal profile. “May I be dismisssssed, milord?” they hissed in a theatrical accent.

 _Right._ Of course. 

Aziraphale's courage splintered on the spot and he cast his eyes down. 

Crowley had just been waiting to leave this whole time. They didn’t see this as a kind gesture, or even a conversation -- for them it was a very dull trial to be endured.

That was how Gabriel had phrased it, more or less, at the end. Aziraphale needed to remember that, for his own emotional protection; he needed to be more vigilant for signs that he had cornered someone who was no longer interested. Someone who was well past done with him. Someone he had trapped.

He said nothing, but one way or another his demeanour gave Crowley the permission they craved to open the door and step away with a sweeping boozy bow. Their sleeves rustled softly as they retreated. 

Aziraphale nodded absently to himself, discouraged -- if unsurprised -- that he’d been backed down and belittled by his neighbour again. For the fourth time. He’d thought he was finally making progress.

Crowley's door was nearly closed when they suddenly stuck their head and shoulders out again.

“Oh! Forgot. Ummmmmm -- fly’s down.”

Aghast, Aziraphale's jaw dropped. He looked immediately, almost dropping his plate.

Crowley cackled like a fiend as they shut the door and flipped the locks.

“Liar,” Aziraphale grumbled under his breath. 

He meant the fortune cookie as well as his neighbour.

Once back in his room, he locked the door too. Since there would be no sleep for some time, he sat at his tiny table and stared down the slighted muffins with profound disappointment.

The haphazard round of drum practice lurched to life again. Visualising it was amusing, despite all, now that Aziraphale knew how much extraneous fabric poor inebriated Crowley was getting tangled up in. At least they weren't likely to have a lot of stamina tonight.

Not much at all, it turned out. After two more minutes of apathetic crashing, Crowley changed tactics and turned on ABBA at top volume instead.

Aziraphale picked up a muffin and raised it in wordless salute before taking a bite, as if the neighbour could see him through the wall. He happened to harbour a deeply personal distaste for this song, having been mocked with it in his school days. A hit, a very palpable hit.

 _You can dance, you can jive,_ _  
__Having the time of your life..._ 2

Crowley was an annoyingly good singer, even in falsetto, even plastered. Aziraphale finished his rejected muffin and sighed, congratulating himself on a very good crumb indeed. And on having made a good-faith attempt to bring hostilities to a close. He had genuinely done all he could to make peace.

Which meant that from this moment on, he could wash his hands of all responsibility for their dispute.

 _You're a teaser, you turn 'em on_ _  
__Leave 'em burning and then you're gone..._

What would be the point of fighting the Rude Neighbour forever? Aziraphale knew he would run out of ideas eventually. The feud would lose its lustre someday. And he doubted he could out-prank someone as wily as Crowley in the end.

Besides, his adversary might not share his sense of how far was too far. A person who would stoop to mailing glitter might do _anything._

It really would be best to call the game, wouldn’t it? Be the bigger person? End this childish row? That was what all logic and good judgement dictated.

Aziraphale stood, gripped by steely resolve.

With all the sober seriousness of a man programming codes for a nuclear launch, he slipped Kenny G's _Breathless_ from its jacket and ever-so-carefully placed it on the platter.3

+++

  1. An excerpt from ["The Dark of the Matinée"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKyG1dRoDlA) by Franz Ferdinand from their self-titled album, which Crowley _cannot believe_ came out in 2004 ↩
  2. ["Dancing Queen"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFrGuyw1V8s) by ABBA ↩
  3. ["Forever in Love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOO4ROO_sPM) by Kenny G



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Crowley. One does not refuse Aziraphale's neighbourly baked goods without consequences. 
> 
> Incidentally the working title of this story was "Crowley Be Nice" to which I added a "goddammit" in the first line of my document. (What is a duck-dunking Crowley like before he has an angel to remind him of himself?)
> 
> Imbibe responsibly, friends, and wear what feels good when you do. For those keeping score at home, Crowley was merely tipsy when he made sure Anathema got her stuff from Erik's and headed home. He got kimono-negligee-ABBA-drunk on his own turf.
> 
> The next several chapters are written now so updates will be semi-regular, once-a-week-ish!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story makes use of a workskin, especially in this chapter, so you'll probably want to leave it on for maximum benefit. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, don't worry!)

Today 09:22

Adam Young

**Adam:** Q: what colour paper u want

**Adam:** I have blue w dark blue dots or birthday party thyme

**Adam:** Theme

**AZ:** The party theme sounds ideal. If it's colourful.

Adam Young

**Adam:** Kk

**Adam:** Found pink streamers too

**Adam:** U have packing tape

**AZ:** I just moved, so yes, I have plenty.

Pepper

**Pepper:** Btw the tape is very loud so maybe tear it off ahead of time & stick pieces 2 your leg

**Pepper:** We woke Brian up before we finished

**Pepper:** The door was covered but the balloons n all weren’t up yet

Adam Young

**Adam:** We wrapped him in streamers anyway it was fine

**AZ:** I'll take precautions; thank you for the warning.

Adam Young

**Adam:** Pepper does Brian still have the wotsit

**Adam:** Glitter letters on string

**Adam:** Like a banner but not, all separate, idk

**Adam:** A garland or w/e, THAT thing

Pepper

**Pepper:** No I think Wensley has it

**AZ:** Who's Wesley?

Adam Young

**Adam:** It’s Wensleydale

Pepper

**Pepper:** Brian's bf

Adam Young

**Adam:** Why does he have it

Pepper

**Pepper:** Your bdays next & we were prepping & he's organised

**AZ:** Is that his real name? Wensleydale?

Adam Young

**Adam:** Yup. Cheese boy

Pepper

**Pepper:** I can get another one for today anyway, that same shop is on my way

**AZ:** I'll happily reimburse you.

Adam Young

**Adam:** Oh no way were all in on this

Pepper

**Pepper:** Should it be HB

**AZ:**??

Pepper

**Pepper:** Happy birthday

**AZ:** Buy the most obscure and/or garish banner they carry. Or string of letters, or whatever you find. As long as it's not over £10. And not gender-specific.

Pepper

**Pepper:** Send pics when u get it all put up

Adam Young

**Adam:** Wish u had cc camera to see them rip thru the paper & everything to escape

**AZ:** As do I, but I'll have to settle for the satisfaction of a job well done.

Pepper

**Pepper:** PS streamers across the door make it more of a pain to get thru, besides the ones hanging down - Wensley did a whole spiderweb once

Adam Young

**Adam:** What did u play today?

**AZ:** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ>

**AZ:** I still don't fully understand your reasoning, but it absolutely had the desired effect.

Pepper

**Pepper:** NICE

Adam Young

**Adam:** U get a wallpound?

**AZ:** It was short so I followed that with Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte.

**AZ:** Yes, I did! I was delighted.

Pepper

**Pepper:** Sick

Adam Young

**Adam:** Wicked

**AZ:** As good as a standing ovation.

**AZ:** I'll see you here shortly. Thank you for donating your time and supplies to the cause.

Adam Young

**Adam:** AND brilliant ideas

Pepper

**Pepper:** Credit where it's due

**AZ:** I'll be sure to thank you in the interviews for the inevitable true crime podcast.

+++

CACOPHONY

Aziraphale triumphantly placed the word so that the Y fell exactly in the upper right corner of the board -- well, the digital rendering of the board on his phone -- partially covering CACAO.

He'd only used six letters, so it wasn't a bingo, but it would still be over sixty points. His opponent would be furious that the triple word scores were all gone.

He swiped through his other open boards as he lay in bed, hoping a few Americans and Australians might be awake for a bit of back-and-forth. He played NOISY over the top of POISE. He added RACKET across an exposed A in GAPING.

If the steady _thump-tsk-crack-tsk_ of the kick, hi hat, and snare inspired him, well, that was just making lemonade from terribly loud lemons. Tonight the ineffective lullabye had started thundering through the wall a full forty minutes earlier than usual, at 11:32. It had been such a lovely Sunday, too.

Thunder, lovely word. He changed SUNDER to THUNDER for fifteen points in the game with his Melbourne opponent.

Two weeks in, the game with his next-door opponent seemed to be a no-score draw.

Aziraphale had learned to sleep with earplugs, not that they blocked much of the drumming. He'd moved his bed to the farthest corner of the flat, and moved it back when that changed nothing. The day after the Gilbert and Sullivan Incident, he'd spent more than he could afford on noise-cancelling headphones -- he was wearing them now, over earplugs -- but even they had their limits, and he couldn't sleep with them anyway.

So he'd tried changing his sleep schedule. He'd napped right after work three times, but he always woke up hungry and inexplicably angry. He’d tried going to bed early, anticipating the interruption, but it was hard to sleep in summer while the sun was high, and it cut into his reading time unforgivably.

He’d reached the stage of acceptance by now. He would simply be horribly underslept for as long as this feud lasted. But he refused to be cowed by Crowley’s tactics, and he was holding up remarkably well, considering. Sometimes Aziraphale worked on his cross stitch while he listened to podcasts, sometimes he cleaned house or baked. His no-knead rustic loaf was improving.

Tonight he lay awake playing Starword, his mindless phone game of choice. It would have been far nicer to read a book, but he really couldn't concentrate through the CACOPHONY -- ooh, lovely, he'd drawn the right letters to spell CLAMOUR starting from the middle C.

He was interrupted by a rapid round of quick-fire texts from Anathema. Aziraphale had learned long ago that she had no respect for waking or sleeping hours.

Today 00:52

**Ana:** Come onnn

**Ana:** You know you should do it

**Ana:** It's only coffee!

**Ana:**!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Aziraphale sighed heavily. It was getting harder by the day to say no to her. Well, to say a hard _no._ He'd given her a soft _no_ every time she'd broached the subject. But she wasn't hearing them, or she was pretending not to. And the trouble with saying a hard _no_ was...

...Well, was that he didn't really want to say it.

**AZ:** When will you leave me to my bachelordom in peace?  
  
**Ana:** When you take the first step towards actually acting like a bachelor again  
  
**Ana:** You can seriously run & hide when he turns up if you want. Won't even tell him what you look like/whether you're there till you say the word  
  
**AZ:** You are invested in my romantic life to an almost troubling degree, Emma Woodhouse.  
  
**Ana:** I'm getting married & I need someone else to be excited about!  
  
**AZ:** I think that’s where she went wrong as well. After a wedding, at least.  
  
**AZ:** It's on your list, isn't it, setting me up with this Anthony?  
  
**Ana:**.........Shut up. It's on my list because YOU SHOULD and YOU KNOW IT  
  
**AZ:** I hope you're enjoying your Night Wine.  
  
**Ana:** Oh but i AM  
  


Aziraphale drafted his response carefully, editing it several times over. He loved his friend, but she was very young, very sure of herself, and a little too inclined to push people towards some grand destiny she envisioned. A designer through and through.

_It's nice that kind of you to take an interest care so much about me my well-being, but I truly cannot don't think I'm ready yet, nor will I turn to you first when and I hope you'll trust me to go about things as I see fit seek this out in my own time because it's really not your place to_

Suddenly the soundscape changed. The drumming had ceased, but it was replaced by a familiar rhythm: _stomp stomp clap. Stomp stomp clap._ Aziraphale moaned aloud.1

Lately it wasn't enough just to play for hours; Crowley now concluded their practice by blasting a song for the neighbourhood's late-night enjoyment. On the night they’d played “Bohemian Rhapsody,” an exuberant chorus of tanked troubadours had stopped under their window to shout-sing the entire thing. Aziraphale had heard one of them vomiting on the pavement just as the last few bars faded out.

Queen was apparently on the programme again.

**Ana:** Sorry I'm a meddling lil witch but  
  
**Ana:** Look, just have a fate w/someone you know is not a dick! He's vetted!  
  
**Ana:** *Date, not fate. Autocorrect  
  
**Ana:** Dry run for when you go on a date you actually care about someday  
  


Aziraphale stared at the little screen in the dark, long and hard. His ears were ringing with _mud on your face / big disgrace / somebody better put you back into your place._ He couldn't bring himself to hit _send_ on the message he'd composed.

**Ana:** And after your awful awkward 20 minute coffee where you’re terribly brave  
  
**Ana:** Come over & we'll drink & complain about men together. You can tell me all about it  
  


Aziraphale sighed a heavy sigh and tried to imagine feeling something for someone new. It seemed impossible. Realistically it would probably happen someday, but...that giddy falling feeling again? Trusting again? Kissing again?

And then the rogue thought crept up on him, sneaky little thing -- he saw it coming, too, but not fast enough to stop it -- that if he slept with somebody, it would have to be at their place, because he only had the single bed, and that would mean _spending a_ _drumless night_ _somewhere_ _else_ and wouldn’t that be something --

He smacked his own forehead to knock some sense into himself. What a ridiculous reason to go on a date! It was unconscionable to ponder using someone for their far-away-from-Crowley bedroom just to get some sleep. How preposterous. How inconsiderate. (How pathetically optimistic about the kind of sleep to be had in a strange bed after casual sex, let alone the likelihood of being invited to stay over.)

**Ana:** Are you lying in bed thinking yourself in circles?  
  
**AZ:** Oh hush, witch.  
  


Yet that selfish little idea stuck like a stubborn popcorn kernel at the back of his mind, where it uncomfortably forced him to consider: would he actually enjoy sleeping with somebody else again? Not for love, not even to start a relationship, just -- to be close. And he was surprised to find himself resounding with a melancholy _yes._ Warm arms, soft skin, nested knees, hot breath slowing unguarded into sleep -- to all of that, absolutely yes.

Of course, the matter of finding someone willing was no small obstacle. Aziraphale had never been adept at dating. It could take a very long time.

But if that was the case -- why not get going?

Especially with something low-stakes, like coffee with a stranger who didn't even have his number? With a swift painless rejection that would mean nothing, a breezy practice round?

**Ana:** BTW Newt is here & he also says you should meet Anthony  
  


Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to remember what a body in bed felt like. How hands felt. And holding. He had missed that kind of uncomplicated closeness since long before the Breakup. Years before.

**Ana:** Now Newt says to tell you I made him say that  
  


He stared intently at the cracked ceiling, wishing it could offer him some encouragement. It was so humbling to be back at square one. So many years of progress and security erased, just like _that,_ the day Gabriel was done with him. Aziraphale was forty-one and starting all over again.

In which case...he might as well start.

**AZ:** If I say yes will you buy me frou frou cocktails while I complain about it after?  
  
**Ana:** YES  
  
**Ana:** THE FROUFIEST  
  
**AZ:** Has the poor gentleman in question even agreed to this?  
  
**Ana:** Yup  
  
**Ana:** He doesn’t know it yet but yup  
  
**AZ:** Oh dear. I already want to take it back.  
  
**Ana:** Too late!  
  


Aziraphale wouldn’t take it back. He felt anxious, true, but -- now that he'd acquiesced, he felt equally determined. He would _do_ this. He would do it, and then he would have _done_ it, and when he did it again eventually, it would be easier.

Pity the poor fellow, though, who had to meet him in this state! Fresh off the Breakup, frustrated with his financial situation, weeks into a fog of music-induced fatigue and irritability...

**Ana:** Tues after work he’ll meet you at cafe Madeleine. 6:30  
  
**Ana:** Not far from you right?  
  
**AZ:** I'm familiar.  
  
**Ana:** Can’t wait to hear how you complain about him  
  
**AZ:** If you recommend him so highly, I doubt I’ll find a single fault.  
  
**Ana:** IDK that I recommend him HIGHLY - more I recommend him for you specifically  
  
**AZ:** Hm.  
  
**Ana:** I have a feeling.  
  
**AZ:** HMM.  
  
**Ana:** Like maybe not true love material but you could be ??friends??  
  
**Ana:** Friends are good  
  
**AZ:** Does this by chance have anything to do with auras or star charts?  
  
**Ana:** No. Well not like a LOT  
  
**AZ:** I’m going to sleep now, congratulations; you’ve gone and worn me down.  
  
**Ana:** Very proud! Wear the new coat!  
  
**AZ:** Don't be proud. You've come uncomfortably close to transgressing my boundaries. You really shouldn't push people like this.  
  


Aziraphale gasped aloud at his phone.

He was shocked and exhilarated by the words he'd just typed. He'd sent the message without a second thought. Where in heaven's name had that come from?

Because it was new. Standing up for himself, talking back to someone close to him -- at least, without _days_ of agonising before and after -- that was absolutely new. It had come off a bit harsh, and he hastened to type an addendum, but he resolved not to soften his feelings as he clarified.

**AZ:** I mean: please do not push me this hard again. I know you mean well, and I know I asked you to help, but this amount of pressure has confused me as to whether I'm really ready or not.  
  
**Ana:** You're very VERY right. Sorry  
  
**Ana:** Also good job!!!! Saying what you thought! That's refreshing!  
  
**Ana:** You know me I try to script life out way too much. I'm for reals sorry. You can back out if you want  
  
**Ana:** I don't wanna Gabriel you. Not ever.  
  
**AZ:** No no, I'll do it. And I’ll know who to blame when it all goes pear-shaped.  
  
**Ana:** Thank you!!!!!!!!!!  
  
**Ana:** And msg received. I'll be more thoughtful I promise  
  
**AZ:** Good night, my dear.  
  
**Ana:** Sleep well <3  
  


That last part was highly unlikely, but she didn’t know that.

“We Will Rock You” ended. The silence that followed was deafening. Aziraphale strained his buzzing ears, listening expectantly for more. Crowley had often tricked him cruelly in the past by pausing for two minutes and then starting again. What would it be tonight? More Queen? More dubtechno, or whatever it was called? Another round of mariachi?

Aziraphale wriggled down deeper into his bed, feeling determined and a little contrary. Whatever it was, he could take it. He’d already done something brave tonight. He’d been doing brave things every day lately, just to keep Crowley on his toes. Things that would have shocked and appalled the Aziraphale of a few weeks prior.

As it turned out, feeling just a tiny bit furious all the time was quite invigorating.

If only he could have found this feeling sooner. If only he’d been in touch with his own frustrations, with his own needs, with his own rights and boundaries, back _before_ \--

He might never have moved in with Gabriel in the first place. Maybe never even dated him at all. He could have spent eight years -- no, nine! -- furthering his career the way he’d intended to, doing something worthwhile with his savings, seeing other people. All that _time,_ that was the true loss...it could have been his, should have been his, if only...

Aziraphale exhaled harshly, nearly a sob, and right on cue another Queen song started. He wasn't familiar with it, but it began _Ooh, you make me live,_ and he felt quite the opposite at the moment.2

But he’d had enough _if onlys_ lately, enough sudden tears. Aziraphale breathed through the moment until it passed like a summer squall.

A sense of fortitude washed over him in its wake, and he welcomed it with a silent cheer. Perhaps he _was_ changing. Perhaps he was being tempered and toughened by doing daily battle with someone who personified everything that intimidated him. His opponent was crafty and cold-blooded, but Aziraphale had matched him so far, step for step, and he refused to back down now. “It’s a Small World” was already on the turntable, with “My Heart Will Go On” ready to follow, and then a selection of classics performed on the theremin.

Aziraphale returned to his Starword boards. Presented with an opening, he tried to change FORGET to FORGETTER, and then to REGRETTER, which would have been a bingo.

Regretter and Forgetter turned out not to be words.

But REGRET would cover up FORGET just fine. Fifteen points. Through the wall, the noisy racket thundered on indifferently in all its cacophonous clamour.

+++

**Morningstar Notes App - Diabolical Plans - 1/3**

yellow carnation = disdain  
birdsfoot trefoil = revenge  
black dahlia = betrayal  
hydrangea = heartlessness  
lobelia = malevolence nope not a cut flower  
mint = suspicion (tea?)  
begonia = dark thoughts  
peony = anger  
tansy (aka bitter buttons!) = “I declare war on you” !!!!!

**Morningstar Notes App - Diabolical Plans - 2/3**

vuvuzela?  
hastur amp 4gtr -- or hire, £20-25/day  
amazon brand hoodie  
bowtie ransom note (polaroids)(find bowties)  
bubble wrap  
paper cups - landing & steps: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6c1wwA8K-g&t=0s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6c1wwA8K-g&t=0s)  
book sub? Harlequin/Mills & Boon monthly [https://www.millsandboon.co.uk/pages/ subscribe-mills-boon](https://www.millsandboon.co.uk/pages/subscribe-mills-boon)  
magazine subs - 4wheel offroad, carpology, superyacht

**Morningstar Notes App - Diabolical Plans - 3/3**

call me maybe  
mr blobby  
macarena  
kidz bop i cannot even  
annoying song list - [https://living.alot.com/ entertainment/most-annoying-songs-ever](https://living.alot.com/entertainment/50-most-annoying-songs-ever--15705) (shit list b/c 500 miles is classic) (but)  
also [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ List_of_music_considered_the_worst](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_music_considered_the_worst)  
milkshake  
achy breaky?  
sugar honey honey  
tay - blank spc / shake it off / bad blood?  
bagpipes !!!!!FUCK  
ska

“Why are you tittering?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I do _Not._ Fucking. Titter.”

“You are, like, scary gleeful, dude.”

“Maybe that's cos I just found a Nodding Head Beethoven with same-day delivery. So I can die happy now. Obviously.”

Anathema leaned over sideways to look at Crowley's phone. “What’s that? Oh, a bobblehead. ...Soooo are you high?”

“No.” He slouched lower in the absurdly plush recliner thing -- the one in which he could not get anywhere close to comfortable -- and clutched his phone closer to his chest.

“But you need a bobblehead _today?”_

“I have an archnemesis now,” Crowley told her. “‘S for him.”

Anathema looked impressed. “Whoa, where'd you get one of those? Can I have one?”

“No, you're too pure in heart. Fuck, I feel like a bloody heron with my legs all skewiff. I barely fit.” Crowley squirmed up the seat again, wishing his knees weren't so unwieldy, trying not to splash too much in the pedicurist's bubbling footbath.

Anathema's feet barely reached hers. But she looked elegant, composed, and perfectly relaxed, at least to the extent she ever could be, because she was a person who intended to do an impeccable job of receiving a pedicure. She put an elbow on their shared armrest and whispered to him conspiratorially. “So who is it?”

“Who’s who?”

“Archnemesis.”

“Just an unbearable neighbour who's tormenting me. And I am, also. I mean -- the torment is mutual. And he will haaaate this.”

“He'll hate a gift?”

“Yeah, this morning he Airdropped me a ton of photos, so I had to find something --”

“Why’s your Airdrop on, genius?”

“Well I had to send him photos last night, din't I? Don't have his phone number.”

Anathema did the serious-face-thing and her voice hardened. “Whaaaat are you sending him, Crowley?”

“Nothing like _that!_ Pffff!” He held up his hands innocently. “I would never. He doesn't deserve my dick pics.”

“Good, because I was about to hit you very very hard.”

“He’s a stuffy prudish prig, so I send him, like -- snakes 'n bugs 'n anglerfish. Creepy crawlies. Whatever. Plus me, living my best life, flipping him off.”

“Why's his Airdrop on then?”

Crowley shrugged. “Either he likes snakes 'n bugs, or he wants to keep his avenues open for revenge.”

Anathema tilted her head and her eyes narrowed. “Wait, how do you know it's his phone? You could be exchanging photos with some other rando. Maybe you have two archnemeses.”

“Nah, it's him. Only phone in range at night. We might be the last two people who live on our block anymore; everything around there's getting gentrified into chichi offices.”

“Mm. So what did he send you today?”

Crowley showed her the images, flipping through hideous airbrushed illustrations of dolphins, kittens and puppies, rainbows and hearts, sparkling unicorns with saccharine motivational sayings in Zapfino.

Anathema gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Dude has your number.”

“He _doesn't._ That's the whole point of the Airdrop.” Crowley snorted a laugh. “First time I hit him, he sent me back a bunch of close-ups from Hieronymous Bosch.”

“Hywhatapus?”

“You remember, we saw one at the museum. This stuff.” Crowley scrolled back just a few images more.

“Ohhhhh! Flower-butt-bird-demon painter guy. Yeah, I like him.”

“Anyway, we share a wall, so I'm tryin' to think of more music to play at him. I did Mr Blobby last night.”3

“What's that?”

Crowley sighed. “I am too old. And _you_ are too American.”

“Have you tried bagpipes?”

“No, because the ruddy bastard beat me to it!”

She thought for a moment. “Ooh, how ‘bout Christmas music?”

“You clever little minx!” Crowley grinned fiendishly and stuck his tongue out a little. He swiped back to his notes to add to the list:

xmas - billy mack atrocity fr <3actually  
do they know it's  
rudolph/frosty  
PAULMCFUCKINCARNTEY  
  


“You are super into this, aren't you?” Anathema observed. “You look like you just won the lottery.”

“I know! Finally, there's one pompous plonker on this godforsaken planet I don't have to pretend to be polite to.”

The nail technician returned to stop them from soaking, so Crowley immediately returned to the silent, scowling, unbearably tongue-tied self he was when other humans were around -- and then she was sitting down _below_ him, touching his _feet,_ and it was all _so strange._ He worried he should say something while she worked. Or maybe it was too late now? Nah, follow her lead, probably, speak if spoken to; that seemed best. Working in service, it was always a little unsettling to be served. At least he knew to tip like all get out, that part he could do.

“When's the big day?” the nail tech asked, and Crowley sagged in relief that something had been said.

“Saturday,” Anathema replied. “My moms arrive tonight.”

“Hence brunch and pedicures,” Crowley added. “Fortification.”

“Well, congratulations to you both!” The soft-spoken woman smiled and continued her work with brisk and practised hands.

“Oh, I'm not the guy,” Crowley shrugged. “I’m just arm candy. She dragged me in off the street because I owe her money. ...And I'm her only friend not working at ten on a weekday.”

While Anathema kindly reassured the woman that her mistake wasn't a problem and then (thank fuck) took the reins on the small talk, Crowley typed out a few more ideas:

polka? - weird al  
accordion generally  
star wars disco  
hakuna matata  
sound of music! do re mi, goats goats goats (!!!!!!!)  
  


By the time he looked up, the nail tech was gone again. And his toes felt weird. And Anathema was toasting him with a mimosa full of floating raspberries. “Cheers, arm candy,” she said with a smile.

“Enjoy. Some of us have to work later.” He looked down at their feet. “What is this stuff?”

“It's fancy. Enjoy it.”

“Looks like wet dirt to me.”

“Commonly known as mud, yes.”

“You paid money for foot mud?”

“It's good for you!”

“Whatever you say, bridezilla.”

“Anthony Crowley, you one hundred percent love all this pampering.”

“Fuck off. ...And yes I do, and thank you for bringing me here 'n blah blah blah, but try not to shout it to the whole world, enh?”

Anathema took a deep drink and put on her everyday business eyebrows again. “So. About tomorrow...”

“Why do -- who -- how -- what the ffffuck is this fixation?” Crowley shook his head in protest, so much that his shoulders joined the effort. “Why would you think this is a good idea for me?”

“I'm telling you, I have a sixth sense about these things.”

“OK, leaving aside the fact that I am apparently friends with one of those _appalling_ people who unironically says she has a sixth sense about things -- this is ridiculous.”

“It isn't.”

“Whoever he is, we're both your friends, and if we don’t get on -- and we _won’t,_ because nobody likes me -- you’ll be in a fix.”

“You don't want anybody to like you.”

“See? You get it, 's not complicated.”

“And how many times have you run into my other friends? _Ever?”_

Crowley settled for sneering at her, because when the answer was zero, nothing needed to be said.

“Come on, grumpy goth boy. It’s been over two years, you have to try again someday. Say yes.”

“Will I be hexed by the fashion witch if I don't? Beyond whatever this foot gloop situation is, I mean.”

“It's one date. It's not even dinner, it's coffee. Twenty minutes. How much could he decide to hate you in twenty minutes? You'll barely get through 'Hi, where you from, nice weather' in that time.”

“This whole thing is incredibly juvenile.”

“That’s because I am a small child, as you constantly remind me, and I remember how to have fun.”

“Has this poor sod even agreed to meet me?”

“He will if I want him to,” she said with a hint of smug around the edges.

“Did you say the same about -- Christ, never mind, don’t tell me.” Crowley took off his sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“He _did_ say yes. Past tense, affirmative; he did. He’s just waiting on you now.”

“Is this just how you grew up? Did you keep stables of gay BFF's in California to tag along with you 'n play out little dramas for your amusement? Because it's not a great look, if I'm being honest.” He turned to squint at her severely with the sunglasses off, so she’d know he was serious.

Instead of getting defensive, she gazed thoughtfully down at her feet, mulling it over. “I think...I think I interfere with all my friends equally, regardless of sexual orientation.”

Crowley twisted up his mouth in acknowledgement. “...Yeah. I bet.” He put his glasses back on so he wouldn't get a headache.

“Besides, I grew up in fashion playground fantasy land, as you like to put it, so I don't think I know anybody straight,” she went on matter-of-factly. “All that to say -- I'm _pretty_ sure this is down to my own personality flaws more than, like, objectifying you. It's mainly just that I’m a controlling nosy know-it-all. About everyone.”

“But -- like -- fff -- nngch --” He gestured chaotically till he found the words. “So are these _personality flaws_ not ones you're going to try to, like, rein in? Or work on, or whatever?”

She turned to him and made fierce, piercing eye contact. He swallowed.

“Anthony. If you had told me, even once, that you _don't_ want to do this, I'd have left it alone ages ago. But for all your squawking, you have never outright said no. And every time I bring it up, you do the mouth twitch thing.”

“Mouth twitch thing?”

“Yeah, the one where you feel one thing but you say the opposite. Your mouth does, like, a little.......like that.”

“...Shit.”

“Am I wrong?” She blinked. He flinched. “Are you just putting up a good fight so you can feel like you did? ...So you can use me as an excuse to go do something you've known for a long time you’ve eventually gotta do?”

“Nat --”

“Believing that if _I'm_ the one who sets you up, then when it doesn't go well, you can go _hey, that’s fine, it's all Anathema’s fault,_ so it doesn’t count as an actual rejection? Because, Anthony, I mean this in all sincerity --” She grabbed his arm and he didn't dare resist. “I would be honoured to serve that psychological function for you.”

Crowley felt himself collapsing very slowly with a hiss, having sprung a slow leak somewhere. “Nat, why are you like this?”

“It's what friends are for.”

He reclaimed his arm and settled back into the chair, staring straight ahead.

“No,” he said.

“No what?”

“You're not wrong. ...And for the record, you’re unbearable when you're not wrong.”

“I just know your aura.”

“Fucksssake -- d'you know how much it annoys me that I love you?”

“Love you too, you dork. Which is why you're going to Cafe Madeleine after work tomorrow. Because I’m the bad guy who’s making you, which means if it goes sideways, you can blame me.”

He started to argue, but not a single word would form in his mouth.

“I mean it. You're gonna go to work, you're gonna get off work, you're gonna go home and shower and freak out in front of the mirror for a while, and then you'll go have one cup of coffee with a human being that isn’t me, and then in less time than we’ve been doing foot stuff you’re gonna walk home wondering how it went by so fast.”

“.............Fuck. ...I am, aren't I.”

“You are.”

“But I'm gonna be _so_ tired, Nat, it’s really not a good day for it -- I'm off at close tonight and I start at nine tomorrow to train the new kid, wotsisface, and I'm not getting _any_ sleep these days -- I’m telling you, I'll be completely fucking worthless.”

“Twenty minutes goes by just as fast if you're completely fucking worthless. Besides, it's the only day for months you're off at the same time most humans are available.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “You have yourself to thank for that. I've been pulling the worst schedule all month, doing favours for everyone, to get both Friday and Saturday off.”

“And it'll be worth it,” she said, finally smiling at him again, “because we're gonna have a _great_ time this weekend.”

A deep, rebellious growl of frustration rolled through Crowley's body for a few seconds, and he writhed in his chair. The mud on his feet cracked to pieces. Which sort of felt good, in a creme brûlée crust kind of way. At last he slumped, defeated, and flexed his toes idly, watching brittle chunks crumbling off.

“So tell me about him,” he sighed. “What about this ill-fated gentleman screams, ‘oh yeah, Crowley’?”

She shook her head. “I’m not gonna tell you anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Not telling him either.”

“Do I get his number?”

“No.”

“Do I get a picture?”

“No. He’s cute.”

“How d’you know what I think is cute?”

“He’s objectively cute.”

“I don’t even _like_ cute. I like sexy.”

Anathema laughed at him so hard she snorted.

He rolled his eyes. “How'm I supposed to know who it is, then?”

“I'll text you when you get there. After you send me a selfie from the cafe to prove you showed up.”

He glared at her. “This is ridiculous. _You_ are ridiculous.”

“It's no stupider than the apps. At least you won’t be judged by a poorly-lit bathroom photo.”

“I'll have you know I look great in poorly lit bathroom photos! On the apps people know what to expect; like, least you know they've seen your face 'n read your bio --”

“That much less risk of rejection, you mean?”

“Yes, that is _literally_ why people do it. Me, I have the tattoos and the eye thing and the hair, and-and-and the resting bitch face, and I’m -- just -- reeeeally not everyone’s cup of tea. Or anyone's.”

“You know you’re sexy. Shut up.”

“I do and I am, thanks, but I'm also a bloody _waiter._ And a sour, spiky, defensive fuckwit who _always_ says the wrong thing. Sexy only gets you so far.”

“What, you want a guarantee this will be magic? I can guarantee you it _won’t._ It’ll be uncomfortable and confusing and over very quickly. You don’t have to win this guy’s heart or take him home, you just have to survive one awkward conversation and not be mean.”

“Why would I be mean?”

“I’m saying you better not, or I'll kick your ass.”

Crowley pulled a few choice puerile mocking faces at her. Which was childish, but whatever, she could take it. Anathema finished her mimosa and sighed contentedly, as if she’d accomplished something. Then she reached for her handbag and --

“No, no, don't you dare, nononononono --” Crowley objected in a rapidly rising tone.

Out came the little brown bullet journal. With a disgustingly prim little nod, she opened it and crossed out exactly one line of text.

 _“Faaaaaaaaaaack,”_ groaned Crowley, looking to the ceiling for support, finding none. “I'd be kicking you if my feet weren't covered in scaly goo. You're so -- bloody -- _pert!”_

Anathema just smiled straight ahead and pushed her glasses up her nose.

Crowley reclined his segment of the plush couch-bench-thing as far back as it would go, which was as close as he could get to hiding, and he lay there pouting. Wondering what he'd just done. He found himself playing absentmindedly with the soft, silvery tassled ends of the gift she'd unceremoniously tossed around his neck when they’d met for brunch that morning. She was always doing that, dropping whatever cool, cutting-edge pieces she'd made on him -- enough that after four years, between all her work samples and wild experiments and practice alterations, Anathema was responsible for most of his wardrobe.

He held up what he could see of today's present for closer inspection. It was no fabric he could identify. “This thing is weird. Like, really really weird,” he grumbled. “What is it even trying to be? Like a bolo...scarf? A quick-release necktie? Gauzy lasso?”

“It’s _you._ You should wear it to coffee so you don’t look like you just left a funeral.”

“What, so he’ll think I’m weird?”

“So _you’ll_ know you’ve been dressed for your date by Device Couture.”

“When you put it that way.” He dropped the scarfy thing and flopped his hand out onto the fat cushy armrest between them with a sigh. “I hate you, y'know.”

He couldn't see her face, but he knew what it probably looked like as she reached out to lace their fingers together and squeeze his hand.

“I know,” she said.

+++

  1. You probably know how this one goes, but in case you want the full experience:["We Will Rock You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tJYN-eG1zk) by Queen  ↩
  2. ["You're My Best Friend"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaZpZQG2z10) by Queen  ↩
  3. ["Mr Blobby"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h37KQu64RY4) by Mr Blobby, which I hope you have never heard and never have to hear again.  ↩



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace for impact.
> 
> (Crowley absofuckin'lutely titters. Listen to your bestie! She knows.)
> 
> Starword is not a real game, though I think something called Starwords is -- the closest actual game to Aziraphale's is called Upwords, which is like Scrabble, only you can stack letters on top of each other. (BTW do you know how hard it is to make up a game title that's not already taken?)
> 
> Do let me know if the fancy formatting is broken on your computer or device, the notes app look is new!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does end on a bit of a low note, so if you want to wait until there's some resolution, give it another chapter or two. No way are these two getting from enemies to [redacted] without a few bumps.

Crowley was late.

Rather, he had arrived at the cafe twenty minutes early, out of habit, but by now he had spent twenty-two minutes pacing and worrying and fucking around on his phone in the alley out the back.

He didn't want to seem too eager. He also didn't want to play it so cool he seemed like an arsehole. He didn't want to make a bad impression, in case the bloke rejected him, nor too good a one, in case the bloke got clingy.

Maybe he shouldn't go in at all. It wasn't like anybody would be interested in Crowley in this state anyway, flighty and rattled and full of venom. Why exactly had he agreed to this again? It would be much easier to go home and plough all this nervous energy into prep for the weekend's big prank for ol’ Poncy McPonceFace. It was a bit of a project.

He fussed with the weird scarf thingummyjig, tugged at his hair, realised he'd mussed it, took out his half-bun and finger-combed it, tried to reassemble it again without a mirror. Probably got it crooked. Maybe leave it down? Nah, looked better half-up, even a little messy. And who the hell was he trying to impress anyway?

(Himself, Crowley thought with a roll of his eyes. He just wanted to feel like he could still be even superficially attractive to somebody. Anybody. And this _want_ was just as embarrassingly obvious as the desires of any of the diners at his tables today.)

He whirled to pace some more, muttering under his breath, and finally texted Anathema.

Today 18:33

**C:** so is he there yet   
  
**Nat:** Won't tell u til I know ur there   
  
**C:** i AM here   
  
**Nat:** Selfie or no dice   
  
**C:** i cant stand you.   
  
**Nat:** Go do it   
  
**Nat:** You'll be done in 20 mins   
  
**C:** if u say the wrds 20 mins one more time so help me   
  
**C:** fffffffff!!!!!!!   
  
**Nat:** Or like 2 mins if it's doomed   
  
**Nat:** Just be nice   
  
**C:** fuuuuuckkkkk yooouuuu   
  


Without allowing even one more second to think about it, Crowley flung himself around the corner, forcing his feet to keep up with the momentum or be left behind. After the first few awkward stomping steps, he remembered how knees and arms worked and settled into his usual leggy saunter, the sexy one he couldn't use at work. He knew how to walk. People walked sometimes. He was people. He was walking, and it was fine, and in twenty more paces he would be there, and in twenty more minutes he would be free and he could yell at Anathema all he wanted.

Cafe Madeleine was one of those savvy older neighbourhood venues that had _just_ managed to keep with the times without selling its soul (yet). They had jars for drinkware, smoothies with açaí and chia whatever, egg sandwiches with rocket and avocado served on square plates -- all that stuff that appealed to the hip brunch crowd. But they were also small enough and busy enough that they could forego adding extra power outlets for the laptop zombie brigade, which made it a much pleasanter space. Crowley breezed in the door feeling glad this was the venue; he liked it here. Good for chatting, good for being quiet, good for a hangover breakfast, good to sit and work on songs or read a book, just like --

There, in the window, just like --

_Hang on just one bloody second what the what the what the FUCK_

And it was surprising as hell, was the thing, totally unexpected, which was probably why instead of saying anything that made sense, _anything_ a human being would say, Crowley shouted in honest dismay:

“What the fffuck're you doing here?”

Ezra’s teacup clattered noisily down onto its saucer as he flinched and recoiled in his seat. He swiftly closed and half-hid a thin paperback under his arm, as if caught with stolen goods, and he stared up at Crowley in shock. Shock and something like fear.

 _Shit._ Crowley tried to remember what words he'd just yelled, and what words he should say to fix it, because he had _fucking better,_ judging by the look on his neighbour's face --

“I mean,” Crowley managed through gritted teeth, “Just -- fffff -- din't expect -- surprised me, 's all --” He looked all around furtively, wondering if _he_ was watching this, whoever he was. Because a lot of people were, now. It wasn't exactly great optics.

Ezra wasn't looking at Crowley anymore, though; he was staring out the window, wooly blond curls glowing white in the slanted sunshine. His brow furrowed with distress and doubt as he consulted himself urgently about something, lips moving faintly. His interlaced fingers were flexing together hard enough that it looked like it hurt.

He stood so abruptly that his chair nearly fell over.

“I'm -- I'm -- I'm -- shhh-sh-sure I don't know,” said Ezra in a quavering voice. “Good day.”

With anxious darting eyes and a red-flushed face, he edged around the little table, and in five brisk steps he was out the door. The surface of his abandoned tea shivered with little rings until it stilled.

Crowley was too stunned to protest until it was too late. It had all happened so fast! Not that he'd have had any idea what to say, even given an hour to come up with something. He groaned in the back of his throat as he watched Ezra crossing the street, long white Victorian coat and bow tie, his whole deal. Where was the sass? The fight? The harumph? How threatening had Crowley sounded exactly, just now?

He replayed the interaction in his head a few times, but he couldn't make heads or tails of it, especially the part where Crowley _waltzed in_ like he fucking _owned the place_ and loudly questioned his neighbour's right to drink tea in nice cafe a few blocks from their building. Why the everlasting fuck had he said it like that? He couldn't have just boomed _“You!”_ like a cartoon villain, gasped comically, had a laugh?

It must've been this ridiculous date thing. It already had him all spun up, and he couldn't imagine sitting down with a stranger while the Nice Neighbour sat in the opposite corner, sipping tea and issuing sanctimonious judgement.

The thought of that made Crowley so uncomfortable that he shuddered, head to toe.

Seeing Ezra had surprised him quite literally out of his wits, in light of the impending date. So he'd Crowleyed things as usual.

Well. Fuck.

If he'd come here feeling weird, now he felt even weirder, so he might as well get on with the weirdness of whatever this so-called date would be so he could go home and moan at his cat, who had no idea how badly he always bollocksed everything up and might show a little sympathy if she was in the mood.

Out of habit, Crowley cleared the table and wiped it clean. Out of habit, he noted that Ezra had been drinking Earl Grey with exactly half a packet of brown sugar in it, no milk. Out of habit, he zigzagged his way across the crowded cafe to deposit the used crockery on a small table by the kitchen door. Out of anxiety, he surveyed the room from the safety of that vantage point for a minute or two, hunting for anybody who looked as if they were also exasperated to be friends with Anathema Device just now.

Seeing no obvious candidates, he took a selfie, wearing his scowliest scowl, and sent it to her. Proof. He had arrived. With all the grace of a wildebeest at a Ming porcelain auction.

Anathema texted back that she was letting the other person know, so he could decide whether he wanted to approach. She also told Crowley not to make the vampire face (whatever that meant).

The table Ezra had abandoned was now the only one free, so Crowley wandered back to it and sprawled in one of the empty seats to wait. He forgot he was supposed to be looking cool, and when he remembered, he couldn't see the point anymore anyway.

After five minutes he got a drink so he didn't seem like an arse.

After ten minutes he figured he'd been rightly rejected on sight. Either that or Anathema was giving a pep talk to some other poor bloke pacing in an alley somewhere.

After fifteen minutes he started browsing Grindr out of boredom -- which he hadn't done in an age -- just because it seemed thematically apt. It only reminded him why he never browsed Grindr anymore. He closed it.

After twenty minutes Anathema texted.

Today 18:55

**Nat:** So sorry babe I don't think he's coming   
  
**Nat:** Coming back actually. He was there but got cold feet & left already. Before u arrived   
  
**C:** well thats a bloody relief   
  
**Nat:** Said he wasn't ready.   
  
**Nat:** Maybe it’s my fault for rushing him. Tried to phone him but no dice   
  
**C:** do I get points for being the one who showed   
  
**Nat:** I mean I won't give u any but u can give em to yourself   
  
**C:** u owe me a drink   
  
**Nat:** I owe u several. Thx anyway. Hope the coffee's good   
  


Well. Twenty minutes and done, then, just as promised.

Crowley was glad. It was a relief not to have met the mystery date. _And_ not to have been the one who chickened out. Crowley could go back home unrejected, yet self-satisfied -- a win on both counts. Which he was self-aware enough to know was all he'd actually wanted out of this. A best-case scenario for his first outing in years.

But his gut was twisting at the idea that he might've compromised the unique _thing_ he had going with Ezra, whatever it was. It was becoming Crowley's obsession, really, the first thing he thought about in the morning and the last at night. He was admittedly knackered from all the interrupted sleep, but if he was being honest, he couldn't wait to hear what music Ezra had chosen for him each day, like some kind of atrocious Advent calendar.

Was it fragile, their neighbourly enmity? Crowley had been thinking of the two of them as opponents, but the prospect of _winning_ was disappointing as fuck for some reason, now he thought about it. Maybe they were something else. Something in balance, something that could topple.

Ugh. No way around it, Crowley had to do the thing he absolutely hated doing. The thing he did every night at work, over and over, for reasons beyond his control, to people who didn't deserve it. The thing he'd been doing almost unceasingly to his starry-eyed younger self for over a decade now. He had to apologise.

+++

The moment Aziraphale stepped out into the sunshine, he turned his steps towards the park. The unceasing city growled and cawed and beeped and smogged all around him for block after block after block. He took lengthy solid strides, jostling loose all of his many confused feelings until they began to break off and fall away. The anxiety. The moments of terror. The tentative hope. The pride at working himself up to something just a little bit brave. The shame at having turned tail and run.

In the wake of these subsiding emotions, he tried not to dwell on any of it too much. The early evening summer sun was still warm and the shadows were blue and the trees were green, and that was lovely. Really lovely.

But Crowley kept turning up uninvited in his mind -- scornfully asking _what the fuck are you doing here?_ \-- and that was proving hard to ignore. Why did they have to burst into the cafe just then? Aziraphale had been doing so _well;_ he'd been prepared, he'd been calm (sort of), he had thought through some innocent topics of conversation and an exit strategy. Yet at the first sign of adversity, he’d beaten a hasty retreat.

The truth was that it would have been impossible to meet with anyone, no matter how charming, while his neighbour was in the room. While their words rang in his ears. _What the fuck are you doing here?_ Excellent question, Crowley; no idea whatsoever, thanks for the moment of clarity; goodbye.

The phone in his pocket whined for attention.

Today 18:37

**Ana:** Okay he's there now! How u feeling?   
  
**AZ:** I am not.   
  
**AZ:** There any longer, I mean. I left a few minutes ago.   
  
**Ana:** Oh!   
  
**Ana:** You wanna talk about it or no?   
  


He decided that if the answer to that was really no, he could get the message across perfectly well without saying anything. So he silenced the phone and walked on.

It was just that Aziraphale had been so -- what was it? So _heartened_ by the way he'd been learning to assert himself with the Rude Neighbour. Not so much to their face -- not consistently, not yet -- but in so many other ways. In his own head most of all. He'd hoped it was a sign he was genuinely growing bolder and healthier.

Yet here he was, running away again. Just like old times. Aziraphale was cowering, undermining himself, surrendering his space...enabling bullies. Like Gabriel.

That notion in itself was nearly enough to make him turn back in defiance. But the thought of Crowley still sitting there -- in designer clothing and those _ridiculous_ sunglasses and all that unassailable self-assurance -- chased him onwards. Crowley was right, in a way, weren't they? Aziraphale _hadn't_ known what the fuck he was doing at the cafe. Why had he even gone there? Was he hoping for a meet-cute? A new beginning? A chance to prove himself? A good seeing-to?

No, he hadn't really been ready. If he had been, Crowley wouldn't have been able to scare him off so easily.

So.

Not ready yet. And this encounter proved it.

St James's Park was always swarming with tourists in summertime, but Aziraphale was cheered by the sight of it nonetheless. As soon as he stepped onto the shaded footpath, his heart began to slow. After a few long, steadying breaths, he found the fortitude to reply to Anathema's many messages.

Today 18:53

**AZ:** I apologise for leaving. While I waited, I was made aware that my underlying anxiety level was much higher than I initially thought.   
  
**AZ:** High enough to indicate to me that I was not ready.   
  
**AZ:** I hate to ruin your meticulous plans. Do forgive me.   
  
**Ana:** It's ok!!!!!! <3 <3 <3   
  
**AZ:** Please give Anthony my sincerest regrets for wasting his time.   
  
**Ana:** You couldn't possibly waste it more than he already does   
  
**Ana:** It's really ok. You are listening to yourself & that's for the best. I REALLY hope I haven't hurt you & I hope you're alright.   
  
**AZ:** I feel better now, because I did what I needed to do for my own peace of mind. Please don't fret on my account.   
  
**AZ:** It's a lovely day and I'm going for a walk.   
  


And then he did, strolling slowly around the lake with his phone turned off. He could tell her more about it later. Or not. For now, he had water and trees and the footpath ahead of him, and some time to himself. It _was_ a lovely day, in fact. Aziraphale detoured onto the grass, just to feel something soft beneath his feet.

It was undeniable that he had come a long way since February. But clearly he still had a very long way to go. He wished he could've had a few more weeks with his therapist, but that was a luxury of the past, jettisoned the same week he'd resumed paying rent.

Fortunately, an evening walk in the park was free. Aziraphale looked out over the water and sighed deeply. He had been doing a lot of sighing lately. Perhaps he had done his whole life. Were some people fundamentally more inclined to sigh than others?

An armada of overfed ducks paddled his way in a hopeful V.

“I don’t have anything for you today, friends,” he told them. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

He walked halfway across the Blue Bridge and leaned on the railing. Perhaps he hadn’t been getting out enough. He certainly hadn’t been getting as much fresh air as he liked. Maybe he should make more of an effort to walk the city at night, during Clamour Hour -- he had sensible shoes and a sturdy umbrella, after all, didn't he? More time wandering out of doors might be good for his mood. It simply hadn't occurred to him until now that he could take a walk at one in the morning if staying at home was unbearable.

Besides, he might stumble upon interesting places to sit and slip away into a good book, even at that hour. And that would mean a return to reading. One of the benefits of being single was the total freedom to journey at his own pace, without any justification at all. He could amble, he could dawdle, he could sit with a book, he could move on when he felt like it.

Gabriel had only ever understood high-speed walks with a purpose. But now...Aziraphale reflected on how nice it was to meander through the park (and cook, and eat, and read, and sleep, and do everything else) without someone hovering nearby to interrupt his peace with inane observations about the British Open or the London Stock Exchange or the properties of wheatgrass.

He should be taking more advantage of being independent. He could do as he pleased now.

Speaking of which -- there was an empty park bench still in the sun, and Aziraphale had poetry in his pocket. Harder to get absorbed in than a novel, but well worth the work of meeting halfway.

He knew he had more to process. A familiar, nagging monologue began winding up in his head, berating him again for his cowardice, for his poor choices, for his caricature of a personal presentation, elaborating on what Crowley clearly thought about him and why. But Aziraphale closed his eyes and staunchly rejected that line of thinking, feeling just strong enough to manage that.

He'd had a long day at work, that was all, and a difficult ten-second encounter _after_ work. Nothing earth-shattering. And he had taken the steps required to escape the situation and feel safe; he had paid attention to his own emotional needs, and he’d chosen to prioritise them. Perhaps this hadn't been as serious a psychological backslide as he feared.

And now he was going to spend his time before supper reading peaceably at the park in his new coat, even if everyone else thought he looked odd, because it was what he wanted to do.

Yes. That felt right.

+++

The Indian restaurant near his flat had become such a favourite that Aziraphale had started dropping in even when he wasn’t dining there, just for some smiles and conversation. He adored the owners, Sanjay and Sunita and their family, and it was so pleasant to have some neighbours he got on with. Tonight, after a prolonged meal there, they'd sent him home with an extra side of daal and rice for the road (over his protests). He’d promised to stop by the next day with some used books for their grandson who did the neighbourhood deliveries.

It was nine o'clock when he finally got home. After putting away the food, he decided to reacquaint himself with his stereo on his own terms, since it had been more a weapon of war lately than an amenity. He turned the volume knob nearly all the way down and shelved the raucous klezmer he'd played that morning on top of the theremin classics from the day before.

After deliberating, he put on some Josquin motets, which made for a soothing change. He only had a few hours before the nightly bombardment began, and he wanted to spend them consciously relaxing. This was his space until then.

There came a gentle knock at the door. Aziraphale stood at the record player for several seconds, head tilted pensively, deciding whether he wanted to answer. He knew who it was.

After the third tentative knock, he decided he might as well. He was steeped in a detached calm at the moment, and that would make it easier to stomach the inevitable follow-up to their earlier encounter.

So he took a deep breath and opened the door wide, but he did not step out. He was on _his_ turf.

“Um, hi,” said Crowley.

They looked sulky and ill at ease, with hands jammed into the pockets of sinfully tight trousers that appeared to be genuine leather. Aziraphale noted the quality of their trim double-breasted jacket and horseshoe waistcoat, the fascinating little silver scarf. Anathema would've appreciated the details; it was very good workmanship, worn with flair. If only their owner had any courtesy or kindness to round out the look.

“What can I help you with?” Aziraphale asked.

“I, um -- ffff --” Crowley tried on a series of faces, none of them comfortable, and adjusted their sunglasses. “Look, I hope we're not just gonna pretend that thing didn't happen at the cafe.”

“I hadn't planned to pretend anything.”

“Um. I'm kind of...” Crowley curled their lip and gave a little groan of disgust, maybe at themself, maybe at what they were making themself do. “Ngk. I'm sorry, OK? Dunno why I said m'words, um, said it like that. All I _meant_ was I din't expect to see you there, 'n it came out all sarky for some reason.”

“I can...imagine a few reasons,” Aziraphale said carefully. Not the least of those being Crowley's obvious opinion of him. And Crowley's temperament. And -- just -- _Crowley._

“Still.” Crowley sniffed, shrugged, and scuffed a foot on the floor.

They seemed to want something else. Absolution, perhaps. But if this was the first time they were stewing over their own actions, Aziraphale was inclined to let them.

“I see. Is that all?” he asked politely.

Crowley looked up with an inscrutable expression. “Why'd you leave?” they asked. “You had every right to be there.”

Aziraphale frowned. “If you don't already know, I'm not sure I can explain it to you.”

“No, I mean --” They squirmed a bit. “I know I was a dick, I know why you left, but -- why din't you stand up f'yourself? Like you usually do.”

This was news to Aziraphale. He wasn’t sure he'd ever stood up to Crowley at all, especially not face to face. He cocked his head, beginning to understand something about this attempted apology.

“It's only -- y’can’t -- _jjjphh_ \--” Crowley waved broadly. “You shouldn't just let some random arsehole run you off like that.”

“It wasn't some random arsehole,” said Aziraphale, slowly and pointedly. “It was _you._ And your behaviour is your affair.”

“I know it was me! I said sorry, din't I?” Crowley sneered impatiently. Or desperately. Or both.

Aziraphale looked unabashedly into those dark lenses. “So you did. But if my leaving made you feel a certain way, that is down to _you._ And if you find that feeling to be unpleasant, you might consider trying _not_ to be belligerent towards people in cafes. And in their homes. And in their -- their -- stairwells.”

Crowley gave an exasperated little bob of their knees and growled at the ceiling, looking for all the world like a recalcitrant teenager. “Yeah, OK, I get it, I know I'm a rude son’vbitch, but I don't --”

“But you don't want to feel like one?”

Crowley's mouth fell open. They took a surprised step back.

Aziraphale looked them up and down. “Forgive me, Crowley,” he said, “if I feel no obligation to shield you from my natural response to your -- your -- lack of decorum.”

Their mouth wrinkled up in a funny tilde shape. “‘Decorum’?” they echoed.

“That is what I said.” Aziraphale stood up and straightened his new coat. The coat that he _liked._ And then he raised an eyebrow, subtly daring Crowley to mock him or his clothing or his choice of words again.

A roll of the neck somehow managed to convey that Crowley was rolling their eyes. “Look, fuck, I'm really, properly sorry, I _do_ mean it, OK? I am! Fucking hell. I’m jus’...yeah.”

Aziraphale saw an opening, and took it gladly. “If you wanted to make it up to me, you could always try varying your practice regimen,” he suggested.

“Don't push your fuckin' luck, Fezziwig,” Crowley grumbled. “Inquire again after hell freezes over.”

Aziraphale sighed, shook his head, and shut the door without saying goodnight.

And he felt a light and liberating sense of peace, once he was alone. Perhaps it was the Josquin. Or the long walk. Or ending one of their confrontations on his own terms, when _he_ felt like it, for a change. (Or perhaps it was the final stage of sleep deprivation before a total breakdown.) It did seem as if...that had gone well, hadn’t it? Or at least not as badly as before? Aziraphale went to sit in his reading chair, feeling rather as if things were looking up.

But then, with a thunderous shock -- like a cannon punctuating Tchaikovsky -- his mind and heart seized up as one. His mouth fell open. His hands began to tremble.

Because he was rapidly synthesizing three fundamental truths about his neighbour with horrifying clarity:

Crowley was a musician. They would practise every day for the duration of their tenancy.

Crowley was a night owl. What Aziraphale did after work, Crowley did in the devil’s hour.

And last of all, Crowley was a wealthy, good-looking, confident, vain, selfish, ill-mannered, unsympathetic person, and they _couldn’t be less interested_ in accommodating Aziraphale’s basic needs.

And not one of those three things was ever going to change.

This apology was proof, in fact: yes, Crowley understood when they’d done wrong, and they didn’t like the feeling. But they did not and could not conceive of their midnight music as _wrong._ It didn’t meet their absurdly high shame threshold. Didn’t even come close.

The seriousness of the situation crystallised in Aziraphale's chest. It hurt like hell. He put his face in his hands and keened aloud, feeling horribly foolish.

This was not going to end. 

It was _never going to end._

The wisdom of Anathema's grandmother flashed through his mind; it had been shared with him in translation one night, by a descendant under the influence of rather a lot of Bordeaux: _The kind combatant suffers twice, because they feel every blow they land; the cruel combatant is armoured with indifference._ Locking antlers with someone who didn’t care, someone like his neighbour, was a losing proposition. The heartless person would always have the upper hand.

As empowering as it felt to fight back with sound and fury and entertaining little pranks, Aziraphale couldn't go on forever. 

But Crowley could. Crowley would.

Because for Aziraphale, this was an extraordinary and exhausting campaign. But it was Crowley's _life._

This was the natural rhythm of their days. All they had to do was what they’d always done, what they would have done anyway, to be assured of the final victory. No matter how long the two of them played this game, there was only one possible outcome.

Aziraphale felt sick. He had been right to flee the cafe. 

In fact, from this moment on, he would do everything in his power to avoid encountering Crowley face-to-face, under any circumstance, _ever._ It would be a blessed relief if he never had to speak to his neighbour again.

+++

Crowley didn’t practise that night. It would've felt weird.

It was kind of a relief, honestly. Before Ezra had moved in, he hadn't practised nearly every night -- the usual was more like twice a week, if that. It had been ages since he’d just relaxed after work and watched some trashy TV with Siobhan. She was a big fan; she rubbed all over him, determined to bury him in a layer of shed.

He still felt off, though, unsettled by Ezra’s expression at the cafe and again on the landing. Crowley worried it might portend a rift between them -- well, beyond their everyday sworn enmity, at least. It would be _awful_ if the game ended now. He wasn’t even halfway through his list, and it just kept growing (he was really excited about the vuvuzela). He had some supplies still on order, and the magazines probably hadn’t started arriving yet.

Anyway, Crowley gave them both a night off -- a sincere peace offering -- and he woke up at ten when Siobhan decided she wanted to tunnel under the duvet down to his toes and hide out there. She had always been a caving cat.

So that was all right. A full night's sleep, sans reveille.

But when he got up to inspect the place and realised that not only was there no wake up call, there was no Airdrop, nothing waiting on the printer, nothing slipped under the door -- Crowley felt let down. Like Christmas had been cancelled. It made sense of course, a quiet morning for a quiet night, but he would have felt reassured by a neighbourly volley over the fence. He deserved it, after all. For being such a gormless prat the day before.

Although if the lack of response was bothering him so much, maybe this discomfort _was_ the punishment he deserved.

Crowley went off to work preoccupied. All through his shift, he agonised about how he could keep the rivalry alive. A faint voice at the back of his brain whispered that he should probably spend some time agonising over what Ezra had said standing in his doorway. Crowley kept visualising him there, immaculately dressed, hands clasped, ludicrously Dickensian and schoolmarmish as always. But as for what he'd _said_ \-- Crowley could think about that later. Away from the customers, where everything depended on maintaining his composure. After work.

If there _was_ an after work, anyway, if the last two bloody tables would quit joking and telling stories and look around to notice that the dining room was empty. His teeth hurt from being so polite and accommodating. He couldn't wait to get out of his uniform.

When he sat down to practise that night, he was filled with trepidation. Was it over? Wasn’t it? 

He started early, soon as he got home, and he finished in less than a half an hour. No reason to push too hard. A small overture. Almost an olive branch. Or the opposite, whatever that was, a thrown gauntlet maybe? It was getting confusing.

Crowley's eyes popped open wide before seven on Thursday morning -- probably a habit at this point -- but there was no sound from across the way save softly creaking footsteps.

He listened intently, stomach twisting, for forty long minutes, which was when he heard Ezra locking up and heading out.

Fuck.

Thursday night after work, Crowley had a drink or two to settle his nerves, and then a third for good measure (because what did it matter?). He started playing at his usual time (a little after midnight) for the usual duration (about an hour) with far more than the usual focus (the bourbon helped). And he began to feel more aggressive as he went on, so he pushed himself faster, louder, more frenzied. Massive fills, solos, tons of cymbal crashing and cowbell. Maybe he could taunt or infuriate his opponent back into the ring. Snap the Nice Neighbour out of his funk with the superpower of irritation, which was definitely Crowley’s only superpower if he had one.

He needed a shower by the time he was finished. He sat on his throne breathing hard, fuming, fearful, hoping he’d been heard. Feeling inexplicably like a lone songbird in the woods listening for an answer from another of his kind.

It was twenty minutes later, just as he got done rinsing off, that he heard Ezra’s familiar step climbing the stairs.

He’d been out?

Or he’d gone out?

The whole time?

Crowley froze, hair dripping on the floor, heart thumping like his double kick pedal. The Nice Neighbour was very clever. He knew exactly what got under Crowley’s skin. He had a gift for it, the aggravating little twerp. So either this was a refusal to play anymore, or it was the _most brilliant move_ in the game to date.

And it was impossible to know which.

That night Crowley was doomed to lie awake for hours, watching the rainbow LED stars on the ceiling, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do without Ezra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boys. I'm shakin' my head. Personal growth's a pain in the...effort.
> 
> The astute reader may observe that we managed to make it through this entire plot point without using the term 'blind date' -- it's one of many common phrases with ableist roots that I am (imperfectly) working to uproot from my vocabulary. 'Anonymous date' works just fine, and I never even needed to use that, turns out, it was easy to write around. <https://therollingexplorer.com/ableist-language-to-avoid-and-acceptable-alternatives-blind-edition/> It's not that blindness should never be mentioned metaphorically, but blindness as a metaphor for *not knowing anything* about a situation is a concept that I am happy to leave in yesteryear, now that I understand that's what it really means. 
> 
> I mention this not as a reprimand for anyone, but because I'm sure comments will discuss this plot point, so I thought I'd share what I've learned. Certainly I'm gonna slip up where words are concerned, but I want to be growing, at least. 
> 
> The upcoming chapter is the first one I wrote, the scene that inspired the whole story. I CAN'T WAAAAAIT i know i keep saying this but seriously y'all i cannnooootttt wait for what is in my brain to also be in your brain.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, click on over to [my other work](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison/works)!
> 
> Beta-ing and Britpicking by the amazing [@Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/). Thank you for making me add all the U's and chuck out all the Z's.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr, [@charlottemadison42](https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/), and I'd love to connect! AMA, all the time.
> 
> I'd love to know what you think at this early stage, leave a comment!


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